The Traveller
by Makalaure
Summary: The tale of Maglor, as he returns to Valinor and attempts to make amends for the deeds he has done. MEFA 2011 Nominee. Revision abandoned.
1. Chapter 1

**A/n: Hello, and welcome to The Traveller. I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's works.**

**P.S.: THIS WORK IS UNDER REVISION. I ADVISE YOU TO NOT READ IT UNTIL IT IS FINISHED. **

* * *

**The Traveller**

**Chapter One**

_Some people say time heals all. I would believe it, were my memory not as sharp as the blade I once wielded. I have merged into the shadows of twilight, discarding sword, boots and cloak. I am a wanderer, alone and scorned and mocked by my very existence, and there is naught I can do to stop the sun from rising each morning, to herald the beginning of yet another day of another year of which I am not a part of. I am silent._

The swells of the pale green water slowly reached towards the elf's feet as he sat motionless on the shore. A faded tunic fluttered from the tips of his thin shoulders, and his trousers were frayed at the edges. His feet were bare, because he possessed no shoes. His black hair was knotted and brittle, caked with sand and salt. Above him, the sky was dimming into a pale, watery grey, dusted with light gold. It held no beauty for his dark grey eyes.

For a while, to him the only sounds were the soft moaning of the sea and the distant call of white gulls as they dipped into the water to catch their supper. How many times had he heard that call? He had lost count. Perhaps, years ago, their cry would have lifted his heart and heightened his humour; not any more. His heart was as dead as the sand beneath his feet, if not deader.

The elf shivered as a light gust of wind blew against his face and played with the ends of his hair. At about the same time, his ears perceived the soft sound of footsteps; another elf, tall and well built, was walking along the coast, his feet barely seeming to touch the sand with each step. He stopped by the elf who was sitting, and said not a word. After a while, the latter spoke.

"Lord Círdan," he murmured without looking up.

"Why are you here?" asked the shipwright, in a tone that was more curious than indignant. "Kanafinwë."

He cringed slightly. The use of his father-name seemed to mock his very existence. But what existence? To die? That was nothing. Not to live? That was a terror. Makalaurë swallowed to ease his parched throat.

"I know not. I should not be here, should not be alive, yet killing myself…" He clenched his hand so hard his nails left crescent-shaped marks on his palms. "Killing myself would also be a sin. I would be allowing myself to rest, which would not suit someone like me. Then in addition to the way I have disgraced myself, my family, my people, the Valar, and the One, I would be mocking the life Ilúvatar gave to me. That is why I say, Círdan: let me stay here. I cannot go into the woods or the fields; it would break my mind, and Heaven only knows what I would do then."

The shipwright let out a deep sigh, his blue eyes narrowing, and put a hand on Makalaurë's shoulder.

Makalaurë started. "What are you doing?"

He received no reply save an odd, pensive look.

"Take it off, I say." Makalaurë tried to pry the hand off his shoulder, but the shipwright's grip was like iron. Something seemed to snap inside him then, and he got up angrily and glared at Círdan, his eyes blazing.

"Why do you touch me? Do you not know what I have done? There was a time when I used to think people would forgive me, and I would perhaps find peace again, but...I learned to live that my life would be forever cursed, and, as mad as it sounds, I am all right with it. If people just sat there and forgave me, I would not repent of my sins. I would just forget, forget what I have done, what I am capable of doing, and would do whatever I have done again! No, Círdan, leave me be. Let me stay by the Sea...

"So that you may wallow in your own misery and not try and set right what you have done?"

Makalaurë was taken aback by this statement, but after a moment he resumed his indignant stare. "What is done cannot be undone. Do you think that even if I swim all the way to Valinor, and fall on my knees, and weep till there are no tears left in my body, that people will forgive me for killing their children? Burning their ships? Disgracing them? I ask you, will they?"

"No," said Círdan. "But you might."

"What is the use of that?"

"To keep a little dignity."

"I deserve no dignity."

"That is a lie."

"Is it?" Makalaurë returned sardonically.

The shipwright arched a fine, silver eyebrow. "Would you rather have people hate you forever? Or would you have at least a few of them find in you the good soul that you had for a while lost in your madness?"

Makalaurë had no answer to that, yet continued to argue. "I do not even know why you are telling me this."

Círdan gave him a long look. "I have," he said, "a message from the Valar." From his coat-pocket he pulled out a rolled parchment, sealed with blue wax. He unrolled it, slowly and deliberately, to emphasize the authority of his being, and began to read.

"_Kanafinwë Makalaurë, you are hereby to return to Valinor, to receive the pardon and judgement of the Valar, to utter penitence, and to make amends for the deeds you have done."_

He rolled it up and tucked it under his arm. "Short perhaps, but it is authentic, I assure you. Lord Ulmo gave it to me nigh on three nights ago."

Makalaurë staggered and took a step back, his breath catching in fear. "I will not come."

Círdan's eyes flashed. "Then you are more wretched and ungrateful than I first thought you to be." He extended a hand. "Come with me. We sail for Valinor tomorrow."

"What was the damned point of you lecturing me about my own misery? Why could you not have just read the order and been done with it?"

"So that you would not come grudgingly."

"I will come grudgingly anyway."

"That," said Círdan with a shrug of his shoulders, "is your problem, not mine." Suddenly his eyes narrowed. "But you will come with me to my ship, Kanafinwë. Either that, or I will bind you with ropes and carry you back."

"I can still fight."

Círdan laughed, causing the younger ellon to stare. "You are weak with starvation, your hand is wounded, and I am the stronger elf."

Makalaurë averted his eyes, clenching his fists. He knew Círdan was right, yet was not willing to go with him.

"Do not run," said Círdan gently. "Now, come. You will stay at my house and will sail tomorrow."

The Noldo had no choice but to oblige. Head hanging, he followed Círdan along the white shores until they reached a small wooden boat, packed with coils of rope, along with some food. When they had settled in, Círdan took up the oars and began to row northwards. His limbs rippled with muscle; his strength had only increased with age.

Makalaurë wrapped his arms round his knees and tried to pretend this was a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The Havens were far grander than Makalaurë had imagined them to be. Built entirely of white marble, accentuated with deep maroons and sea-greens, the fort's towers reached up like fingers to scrape the sky, and its windows were tall and fitted with intricate, coloured glass. Roses crept along the walls, and the doors were made of fine wood, polished and decorated with black metal. The structure was within view of the Sea, and seagulls whirled above the turrets, occasionally coming to perch on the battlements. It was late evening, and the only elves visible were the guards in their bright helms. Along the shore floated ships splendidly crafted in the likeness of swans.

It had been a long time since Makalaurë had seen such beauty, and he struggled not to stare. Círdan caught his look and a gleam sprang to his eye. "You must be hungry. Come and have dinner with me," he offered, giving a small nod.

"I would rather not..."

"I am not giving you a choice," came the cheerful reply.

They advanced towards the main double-doors, ignoring some of the stares they got from the guards. Makalaurë looked down at the flagstones that they walked upon and briefly wondered when he had last set his foot upon solid, chiselled stone.

"Now," said Círdan as they came into the foyer, "we must wait a while before we can eat." He called for an attendant with curly brown hair and a servile expression.

"It is quite late, my lord," the attendant said, casting a wary look at Makalaurë. "We will not be able to make anything lavish."

"Never mind, Arandur. You can get bread and meat ready. Set the table. We have a guest." He cocked an eye towards Makalaurë, who blushed furiously at the prospect of being called a guest, and bowed his head. "In the mean time we can wash and refresh ourselves."

They dined in a small but opulent room in the west wing of the fort. Makalaurë ate slowly for, though he was not willing to admit it, he was hungry and had not tasted good food for a long time. There was white bread, a spiced capon, half a wheel of cheese, a bowl of fruits, honeyed almonds and stuffed figs. A candelabra rested atop the table, and a chandelier swung above, casting a pale yellow glow to their faces. Círdan ate heartily and every so often offered Makalaurë food. The burst of flavours on the Noldo's tongue were more alien than he remembered, and he chewed thoughtfully.

After a long silence, though, Makalaurë began to wonder if he should have accepted the shipwright's offer so meekly. He was after all, a kinslayer. His stomach twisted into a knot and he set down his fork before he had taken a second helping of food.

He had to get out of here. He couldn't go back to Valinor. What would people say?

"You will have your own room tonight," Círdan interrupted suddenly. "And you will not be in bonds - be grateful."

"How do you know I'm not going to kill you?" muttered Makalaurë, suddenly in a dark mood.

Círdan swallowed a mouthful of bread. "How do you know I'm not going to kill you?" he replied. Makalaurë let out a solitary, humourless chuckle. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"You are ruining dinner for both of us."

Makalaurë sat back in his chair. "What has that got to do with it?" he asked in a high voice.

Círdan held up his hands in a droll manner. "Never you mind," he said. "Are you done eating? I will show you to your room, if that is the case."

The chamber was on the third floor of the building, a relatively small yet comfortable room with a bed draped with fine cotton, a desk and a chest to store clothes. Makalaurë walked into it as if in a dream and touched the bedcover.

"There is a washroom on the second floor, if you need one," informed Círdan. "The ship for Valinor sails at the tenth hour tomorrow morning. I will supply you with clothes, so you need not worry about that."

After some more strained conversation, the lord of the Havens exited the room, leaving Makalaurë alone.

Makalaurë sat down on the bed and gazed out the open stained-glass window, at the stars that burned bright in the night sky, as clear as they were when he was born in Valinor. A crescent moon swung above the grey-blue clouds, and a cool breeze drifted into the room, bringing with it the stingy scent of the ocean. He had stood on the other side of it, on the gem-strewn shores of his motherland, and had wondered what the lands of Beleriand held. Never in his young life had he imagined the things that were to befall.

It would have been a good idea to sleep, but Makalaurë's head was a whirl of emotion and scattered thoughts, and, rather too quickly for his liking, the birds began to cry, the Sun rose golden against the coral sky, and it was morning.


	3. Chapter 3

They broke their fast on seeded bread, boiled eggs and apples. Makalaurë barely touched his food, playing with it like a child, and occasionally gazing gloomily at the Sea, which was visible through the glass windows. Círdan had chosen wisely to not let anyone eat with them, as that would risk things being thrown and insults being hurled.

Makalaurë had been dressed in clean, respectable clothes, a grey mantle about his shoulders and fine leather sandals on his feet. His hair had been washed, scented with oils and plaited, and a satchel of fresh clothes and shoes had been supplied to him. He felt rather embarrassed and somewhat awkward in his new attire, but Círdan had been right in saying that no one wanted to see an Elf who looked like a tramp, no matter who he was.

After breakfast they walked together towards the shore, where a white ship was being loaded with cargoes and boarded by elves. The sails stirred gently in the wind, as if impatient and wanting to depart quickly. Makalaurë could not have wished for anything less.

An Elf aboard the deck hollered from above. "We're ready!"

"Good luck to you," said Círdan.

Makalaurë slowly walked up the ramp. When he reached the deck he turned back, and furrowed his brow. "Círdan…thank you."

The shipwright stroked his beard and cocked a pepper-grey eyebrow. "Well now. This is rather unlike you. But you are very welcome."

Makalaurë nodded once, and stepped aside as a few elves let down the sails. The ship moved under his feet, and he watched as several elves came to the balustrade to wave farewell to their friends or families.

Makalaurë gazed at the rapidly receding form of Círdan till the latter raised a hand, nodded as if settling an agreement, and went back towards his home. Before long the thick afternoon sun was shimmering over the Sea and burning on his back, yet Makalaurë did not move a toe from his place.

An hour or so later, he was shaken from deep reverie by an Elf who looked at him with curious eyes. "Makalaurë."

He shuffled his feet, noticing the rather fitting lack of his title _lord_. "Yes?"

"Would you like to have your luncheon in the dining room, or would you rather take it in your cabin?"

Makalaurë inwardly laughed at the prospect of being offered a choice. "I will take it in my cabin, thank you."

His cabin was quite cramped, though it had a bed and, surprisingly, a private washroom. A round window gave him a clear view of the sky above.

Realising suddenly that he had not even seen himself in a mirror yet – he had dressed without one – he went inside the bathroom, intending to get a good look at himself. Stripping off his clothes, he stood in front of the round looking-glass, and did not know whether to laugh or sob. His expression made the Elf in the mirror seem now both a lunatic and a vagabond. How thin had he become? He took a step closer to the glass and examined his face. His cheekbones, already rather high to begin with, seemed overly sharp. It was as if someone had taken a carving knife and re-sculpted his face into something gaunt and lifeless, with cracked lips and dull eyes. His dark hair was thinner, and lacked the lustre with which it used to shine. He took one of his wrists in his hand, and he thought it would have snapped rather easily now.

Swallowing, he looked down at his legs, seeing them properly as if for the first time; he could make out all the cords and tendons in them, and he shuddered, and quickly donned his clothes again.

"How did I survive?" he muttered to himself, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Returning to his cabin, he lay down on the bed and raised his eyes to the window; the sky was a clear blue, the clouds having dissipated with the breeze, and he recalled a memory which he had not brought to mind in a long while.

It had been an icy-cold day, with an overcast sky and a bitter wind, only a fortnight after they had left Valinor. Maitimo and Makalaurë had been sitting in the elder's cabin, idly throwing dice. Maitimo was sitting on a cushioned chair, his dark red hair swept back messily in a ponytail, his grey eyes restless as the sky. All of a sudden he sighed deeply and leaned back.

"Brother," he had said solemnly, "tell me true. Do you see any sense in what we are doing?"

Makalaurë had set down his die and furrowed his brow. "I know not what you mean. We have come this far. Surely it makes no sense to go back now?"

"Ah, brother," said Maitimo, giving a wry smile, "you are a terrible liar."

"I know not what you mean."

"You do, Makalaurë," returned Maitimo. "You do. And I have a feeling you will regret this the most."

Makalaurë had stared at his brother's apathetic tone, but brushed it aside as irrelevant. They were all feeling ill at ease; surely it was a matter of time before they regained the jewels and brought them back to their home.

Makalaurë blinked slowly, his eyes still on the cabin window, and smiled somewhat grimly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Makalaurë drew in a sharp breath when he heard the shrill call from the lookout. "_We're there! We're there!_ There yonder lies Valinor!"

He coughed and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, tightening his fingers on the railing. He was facing the other direction, deliberately, towards Middle-earth; the fact that he had nearly reached Valinor – his home, his cage – had not registered in his mind yet. When he could hear the call of the Elves on the shore, he went inside to retrieve his satchel and his trunk, and came out to stand by the balustrade. The ship had been anchored by then, and gulls were flying bout the long wooden poles, around which the sails were being wrapped.

Makalaurë's eyes flicked over the scene before him. The hill of Túna stood out, and upon it the white city of Tirion, iridescent in the morning light with its towers of marble and gold; either side of the hill lay the flanking mountains of the Pelóri, dark green with thick forests and frosted with snow at the tips. The grass that carpeted the shallow valley ruffled, pale yellow and green, with the soft sea-breeze. He felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and one dripped slowly down one cheek. _I left this. I left my home, my people, for nothing. And now I must pay the price. _Where would they put him? In a cell? Or would he be confined to the Halls of Mandos, forever doomed? But he passed his hand over his eyes and set his lips in a firm line. _I must not think like that. Whatever is given to me, I have deserved. There is no use lamenting about it._

Hoisting his pack over his shoulders, he began to walk down the lowered ramp. Several fisher-elves were dragging in their catch, and few bothered to turn their heads to see him, an exceedingly slender, plainly dressed elf with sable hair and dark grey eyes. When Makalaurë reached the bottom, he took in a deep, somewhat shaky breath and looked around. A flash of coppery red caught his eye, and he blinked and turned his gaze on a woman sitting on a bench. Her back was to him, and she was hunched over, her arms wrapped stiffly around herself, as if she was terribly cold.

Realization dawned on him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat and began to walk towards her, nearly tripping in his haste. When he reached, his arms dropped to his side, and the satchel and trunk slipped from his grasp.

"Mother?"

The woman gave a gasp, and immediately got up and faced him. Her hand flew to her mouth, and for a few seconds she only stared at him. Then, almost convulsively, she flung her arms around his neck and began to sob, her shoulders racking.

"Makalaurë," she mumbled, clutching him tightly as if she feared he was not real. "Makalaurë. Oh Ilúvatar, my son, my son." She kept saying his name over and over again, and within a short while the front of his tunic was drenched in tears.

"Mother." He wrapped his arms tightly around her, sitting on the bench and rocking her. It was not until they had let go of each other that he realised tears were seeping down his own face and dripping from his chin. Nerdanel looked him up and down, and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

"Káno, you have changed. By the heavens, you've gotten so skinny!" That sounded more like her. "Haven't you been eating well?"

She looked rather pale, he thought, though she was otherwise exactly as he remembered her. Her face was still pale and heart-shaped, with a scattering of freckles across her nose; her hair was tied in a knot behind her head, with loose curls dropping to caress the nape of her neck. In the morning light she looked as she used to when he was just a boy and would go running to her if he had scraped a knee or burned a finger on his harp.

"No." he answered. "I could not get much on the shore."

Nerdanel suddenly stood up resolutely, holding him by the shoulder. "You are coming home with me. I don't care if you've already eaten, you will _finish _what I feed you." She began to fuss, straightening his collar and patting his hair and wiping imaginary spots of dirt off his face. She seemed frantic, almost mad, like the Elves that had been captured by Morgoth but had somehow managed to escape after years of imprisonment.

"Mother!" he said, puckering his brow. "What about the _judgement?_"

She stopped and stared at him. "You are ill-informed, son. I have permission to meet you first for a while."

At first Makalaurë was confused as to what was happening, but then he sighed and picked up his bags and sat in a carriage that Nerdanel had called, her arm tucked into his elbow. Of all the things he missed in Valinor, this was one of the most profound. Sitting with his mother arm in arm, talking into the night till Laurelin began to shine…

Neither of them spoke now, though. Nerdanel rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, her other hand clutching the front of his tunic. Makalaurë wrapped an arm around her, and was soon asleep, despite the tumult of thoughts that were raging through his head. He did not dream, and when Nerdanel shook his arm to wake him he felt as if he had barely slept a second.

"We are home."

Home. That simple word he had not dared to think of for countless years, for fear he would never reach it. But he was there nonetheless, being escorted out of the carriage and ushered into the spacious gardens of his house. It lay away from the foot of the hill of Túna, surrounded by uneven fields of grass, with a forest some miles away. Closer to the building, gardens were kept, trimmed daily by attendants and filled with sweet-smelling roses and violets and many other flowers. Trees also grew there; willow trees and alders were common. The house itself was made of white marble, with stained-glass windows and floors inlaid with many-coloured stones in the likeness of birds and flowers.

When they passed the bushes, Makalaurë stopped for a moment. "Mother, why is the pond empty?"

Nerdanel shrugged. "There were too many frogs. You know how I hate those things."

It was a transparent lie, but Makalaurë said nothing more of it. In their childhood, he and Maitimo had played in that pond, splashing each other with murky green water till they were covered head to toe with algae. Their father would always get angry and dunk them in the bath and scrub them for an hour, but they would at once rush right back and dip their heads into the pond again.

The great wooden doors protested loudly as they groaned open on iron hinges. They were as huge, strong and intimidating as Makalaurë remembered them to be, though more eerie, like the gates of some palace that had been deserted for a thousand years. When they opened fully, Makalaurë saw that the carpets had all been rolled up, and only a few rich tapestries ornamented the white walls.

Nerdanel called for an attendant to set food on the table in the Great Hall. She sat on a wood-and-gold chair at the head of the table, but Makalaurë lingered on his feet. "Mother, may I see our old rooms for a moment?"

Nerdanel looked at him wearily, and nodded. They went first to Maitimo's room on the first floor. To Makalaurë's surprise, it was fully furnished; all his brother's old bedcovers and dressing tables and carpets and paintings and drawers and jewellery were present. They toured each room, one by one, and all were in impeccable condition. His own had a few extra oddments and objects that were not there in the others: a porcelain pitcher of water, a candelabra and soft, green bedroom slippers.

"Mother," he asked, "why are all the rooms furnished?"

Nerdanel tried to smile; her eyes were teary and red. "I don't know. I suppose I couldn't believe they were dead." A tear rolled down her cheek, and she sank onto the bed, staring blankly at the pattern of the duvet. Makalaurë sat down beside her, and she began to sob quietly into his shoulder.

He let her cry for a few minutes. Then he gently grasped her shoulders and attempted to look into her eyes. "Mother, I am alive. And I'm here. Do not fret; I won't ever leave again."

Nerdanel sniffed and swallowed, trying to wipe her eyes. Makalaurë took a handkerchief from a bedside table and did it for her.

Suddenly his eyes fell upon a long object that rested against the wall. His old practice sword. He remembered its lethal edge – he had injured Tyelkormo with it once, by accident. Both were then a few hundred years past his majority. He had never heard strong, arrogant Tyelko scream so loudly, clutching his arm as if it would fall off.

The blade lay almost innocuously – mockingly, he thought, with its brown leather scabbard, patterned with silver – tattered now. He got up and went to it, warily extending a hand toward the hilt. His fingers brushed the polished black wood.

"You kept it," he said quietly, his fists curling. Nerdanel did not look at him.

"I do not know why," she replied in almost a whisper. Makalaurë withdrew his hand as if the sword were still white-hot from the forge. He took a shaky breath.

"I do not want it here. I will not have it," he said. Then he dropped his head, suddenly ashamed at his sharpness. "I am sorry, Mother," he whispered.

They ate luncheon in silence. Nerdanel tried to force her son to eat, but he could barely bring a few morsels of food to his lips. When they were done, and Makalaurë had somehow managed to convince Nerdanel he could not eat, Nerdanel tapped her fingers on the table.

"You ought to get ready," she said. "The Valar will be expecting you."

* * *

Makalaurë tried not to look up as he knelt before the Valar in the Máhanaxar. Only a few other Elves were there: Nerdanel, Elrond, and his wife, Failawendë. Failawendë was standing erect, her expression impassive, though her lips quivered slightly and she was clutching a shawl about her shoulders tightly, despite the mild day. He had tried to look at her, get her attention, but was called to kneel almost immediately.

Now he pursed his lips as beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and pooled uncomfortably around his neck. A heavy silence hung in the air. Only a few birds chattered away in the trees, oblivious as to what was taking place. After thousands of years, standing before the Valar frightened him beyond what he could fathom. He knew not what to say or how to say it.

"Kanafinwë Makalaurë." Manwë's gentle but firm voice pierced the air. "Look up, but do not stand."

Makalaurë did as he was told, trembling slightly.

"You are to utter penitence, son of Fëanáro. Begin."

He did not know where to start, or how, but he did it anyway. "I am a betrayer and kinslayer. I am a thief and an oath breaker. I slew my kin at Alqualondë. I helped burn the ships at Losgar. I…" He struggled not to cry. "I failed to release my brother Maitimo from Thangorodrim. I rendered Lord Elrond and his brother parent-less for a time. I participated in numerous killings, and I stole a Silmaril from Eönwë's camp." He stopped and gulped, trying to stay in control. Lamenting over those things was bad enough; uttering it in front of his mother and wife was almost unbearable. The humiliation was stark and sharp, and he lowered his eyes again.

"Say what else you did," said Varda. Makalaurë knitted his brows together in incredulosity. What else had he done? Surely they didn't want him to give them all the gory details?

"My Queen, I do not understand. I did nothing else."

"You did," she replied. His eyes widened. How…?

"You were foster-father to Lord Elrond, were you not?"

He bent his head. "For a while, yes."

"Look up," said Manwë. "And if our sources are correct, you were against the plot of stealing the Silmarils from Eönwë?"

"Aye, I was. But I did it anyway."

"Why?"

"I know not. Maitimo believed we would never be forgiven, and would never be released from our curse. He felt that it was impossible to render the Oath void."

"And you? What did you think?"

"I thought perhaps…It shames me to say this, but I thought we might be forgiven. I was sick of killing and bloodshed, and was willing to break my oath. I was relieved when Eönwë let us go, so there was no need to fight, but after that…" He raised his hand a fraction; the scars had never healed. At first the blood blisters had been unbearable, and he thought his very hands would fall off, but they didn't.

"So you admit to your sins."

"Yes."

"And you also admit to the goodness in you."

Makalaurë pursed his lips. He had no answer; his mind was blank. He felt his chin being lifted by a finger, and he found himself looking straight into the sky blue eyes of Manwë Súlimo.

"For you, Kanafinwë Makalaurë, son of Fëanáro, are forgiven."

_Forgiven_. Was it really done then? Could he live his life as he used to, before he succumbed to madness and swore that terrible Oath?

"But there are conditions," warned Varda. "You will not be allowed to leave Valinor. You will wear no weapons, provoke no fights, and swear no oaths of fealty. You will be stripped of all honourable titles. If, even once, you are found committing an act of violence or disturbing the peace of Valinor, you will be straight away confined to Mandos' Halls. In this, we have the consult of Eru Ilúvatar. These are not options. Do you understand?"

"I do," he answered, strangely calm. "I will abide by those rules to the end of my days." What did he care about titles or honour anymore? How small those words seemed to be all of a sudden, when held against the warmth of his home.

"Good," said Manwë. "Arise."

Makalaurë stood.

"Now," continued the King. "You may live alone, or with your honourable mother, Lord Elrond or your lady wife, if any will take you into their homes. Speak if you will," he added, turning to the witnesses.

"I will," said Nerdanel, almost impatiently.

"I will," said Elrond gravely.

Makalaurë waited, hardly daring to breathe. Faelwen was silent, her pale blue eyes cast to the ground.

"Lady Failawendë of the Teleri," said Varda. "Will thou take back your husband so that he may live with you?"

Faelwen suddenly straightened, and looked straight into the eyes of the Queen. "I will not," she stated bluntly, in a low voice.

Makalaurë closed his eyes and tried to make himself believe he had not hoped for kinder words.

* * *

**Tyelko-Tyelkormo/Celegorm**

**Káno - Maglor**

**About the terms and conditions Káno is given...it **_**is **_**terribly similar to the one in RAFA, but I suppose there couldn't possibly be any other. And I know very well that Manwë and Varda are acting unusually harsh, but if they sugar-coated their words people would accuse me of ripping off the scene in RAFA.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Elrond gazed at his foster-father. The ellon looked like he was going to be terribly ill, and Elrond had to resist going over and patting him on the back. This was not the reunion he had imagined. He had imagined them to meet on the shores of Middle-earth, embracing and weeping, and for them to go to Valinor together, on a great white ship, with a flagon of wine between themselves and many tales to tell.

Manwë and Varda did not seem to notice Makalaurë's condition, for all their fabled eyesight, or if they did they simply went on.

"Choose. Will you live with your assigned guardians, or alone?"

Makalaurë cleared his throat, looking unhealthily green. "I…I will reside with my mother for a time. I will later live on my own."

The look on Nerdanel's face was one of half relief and half hurt. Elrond gently laid a hand on her arm in a gesture of comfort. He desperately wanted to talk with Makalaurë, and his feet twitched and shifted in anticipation.

Manwë gave a final nod of the head. "Good. The rest of your affairs I will leave to Lady Nerdanel and Lord Elrond. You both, and you, Lady Failawendë, are to be his guardians and keepers. Make sure he creates no mischief, or, I repeat, he will spend eternity in the Halls of Mandos." He turned to Makalaurë. "You are dismissed."

The moment Makalaurë set foot outside the Máhanaxar Elrond and Nerdanel grabbed his either arm. Elrond crushed him in a hug, nearly knocking the wind out of his lungs, and then stepped back, his eyebrows elevated with joy.

"Well met, Maglor! It has been long," said Elrond. His tone was more or less controlled, but the light in his eyes spoke otherwise. He always referred to Makalaurë as 'Maglor'. The former was too ambitious a name for a child to pronounce, and he and Elros had grown up saying, simply, 'Maglor'.

Makalaurë swallowed. "Yes, well met," he replied quietly. He could barely recognise his own foster-son. Half of him was still unsure as to whether he was really Elrond. The younger Elrond had been hot-headed and somewhat selfish, with relatively little knowledge of politics or the art of the sword. He looked well-versed in both now; his eyes were deep with the wisdom of many books. "Elrond," he said again, as if in a stupor.

"Do you want to come home now?" asked Nerdanel tentatively, throwing a glance at Failawendë, who was rapidly walking away.

"One moment," said Makalaurë distractedly, pulling from his mother's grasp and heading towards his wife. Elrond quickly grasped his shoulder. "I would not go to her so soon, Maglor. She isn't in the best of moods. She hasn't been for a while." He had met Failawendë before on many occasions, and while he had found her amiable and kind, there was a bitterness in her that could easily erupt at the sight of her long-lost husband.

"All the same, I wish to speak with her," said Makalaurë. He jogged up to his wife. "Fai - " he began. She whirled around, her eyes narrowed.

"What?" she asked in a flat tone. He knew she could be a little frightening sometimes, but he had never before felt so threatened by her mere presence.

"I…I just wanted to meet you," he said dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, now you have. Goodbye." She gave a curt nod and turned her heel, but Makalaurë held her by the elbow.

"Wait – "

She turned around and, to everyone's great shock, slapped him hard across the cheek. "Makalaurë. Stop hounding me. I do not want to talk to you, do you hear? Now go away!" She turned and ran to the carriage that she had come in, her dark hair flying. She got in and slammed the door. Immediately the driver tapped the two horses that carried it with a whip, and it rolled away towards Tirion.

Makalaurë stood still, rigid with shock. She had never slapped him before. For a moment nothing happened; then he felt a hand grasp his upper arm. It was Elrond. "Let her go, Maglor," he said quietly. He felt another hand on his arm. Nerdanel.

"Let us go," she said. "I am sorry, Káno, but Elrond is right. You will have to try and forget her."

Makalaurë shut his eyes tightly. This was not how it was supposed to be. "I cannot," he said finally, placing a hand over his eyes. "I cannot."

* * *

"I can't believe she hit me," murmured an astonished Makalaurë, holding his cheek (it was still slightly red). Elrond shrugged, and swirled the wine in his cup, and Nerdanel gave a small sigh. They had all come back to the Fëanorian household, and were sitting in one of the studies in the east wing.

"To be honest, I'm not terribly surprised, Maglor. You _did _leave her without a proper explanation – as if any explanation would suffice in the first place." As much as Elrond loved Makalaurë, he thoroughly disapproved of the manner in which the latter had left his wife.

"I asked her to come with me," Makalaurë replied, dazed. Elrond sighed.

"Then just be glad she said no. Or would you rather have had her by your side while you fought all those battles?"

"You're right," he said. His brows knit together. "All the same. I wish she was with me. I missed her terribly."

Elrond nodded. He could relate to that, and had seen the pain on Makalaurë's face when he had talked about his wife. That was a long time ago, when they were living together in Amon Ereb.

All of a sudden it struck Elrond that he hadn't yet told Makalaurë about anything that had happened in his life. He cleared his throat. "Maglor."

Maglor glanced up from his clasped hands. "Yes?"

Explaining what all had befallen while he was away took Elrond a longer time than expected. Makalaurë constantly had a rather blank look on his face as Elrond talked about his wife, his brother and his three children. At the mention of Elros Makalaurë averted his eyes and pressed his lips together, and shook his head regretfully; his hands shook.

When Elrond was finished, Makalaurë tipped backwards so that his back hit the cushioned chair he was sitting on. The world seemed to have moved on and left him behind in the dust. It seemed strange that Elrond – his own foster son – should be married with three children. It was overwhelming.

"But enough about this, dear," said Nerdanel, who had been sitting quietly opposite the two ellyn till now. "You must know about the things that have changed. Lord Arafinwë is the King of the Noldor now, and Findaráto his son has been resurrected and is the High Prince. Artanis, too, is here."

"And the music school you went to has split into more than a few parts."

Makalaurë started. "The music school? But why? I can't think of any better tutors or materials in the whole of Aman."

Nerdanel sighed. "I don't know. It seemed to be easier. Now the main building – the one you used to go to – is reserved for those people with only the greatest skill. The rest of the students are scattered about small schools in Tirion and Alqualondë." Makalaurë was already in deep reverie. The music school had been the one solid ground in his life, the one place where he could go to at any time, and feel as if he had entered a haven. Now even that had crumbled to dust. "I certainly hope they have not broken parts of it down?" he asked hoarsely.

"They've pulled down a part of the left wing, since it was getting in the way of the houses, but other than that, no."

"I see. Do they still hold performances?"

"Oh yes, plenty of them. Though they're not what they used to be. Which reminds me, aren't you going to join back there?"

Makalaurë thought. "No," he said slowly.

"What?"

"But you're the best bard in Aman!" cried Elrond. "I cannot think of a finer minstrel than you."

"Was. I was. No longer." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The evening light was pouring through the windows, casting a golden hue on their silent faces.

* * *

An hour before sunset, on the same day, three elves huddled together in a marble house in Tirion. One was tall, pale-skinned, and silver haired – the other two were dark, with somewhat anxious faces that glowed in the candlelight. All wore traditional, simple clothes of grey material. They were sitting in a basement, and the room was devoid of any natural light due to the absence of windows. Pushed against the wall was a wooden table, which was where they were all sitting. Two half-melted wax-candles flickered brightly, one on the floor and the other on the table. In a corner, by a shelf, lay a barrel full of wine.

"You are certain he's back?" asked the Teler. "I can't believe it."

"It's true, Atatyaro," replied one, scratching his hair. " Funny though. I had never thought the Valar would let him set foot on our shores again."

"Well, let him they did," said the other. "There's no mistaking that."

The one called Atatyaro tapped his fingers on the table. A strange gleam had come into his eyes, which was making the other two both queasy and excited. A frown, hardly perceptible, contracted his features. "He's a kinslayer," he muttered. "Once a kinslayer always a kinslayer. It is not just to forgive him." He got up and began to pace up and down, his hands behind his back. "How can they let him come here, after all he's done? Will people even want him here? No, no, they will torment him, beat him, humiliate him – of course that's exactly what he deserves. But there are other fools who actually bear affection towards him. Nerdanel – I always said she was crazy, marrying that lunatic Fëanáro – and Elrond. Not to mention Mahtan."

"What are you going to do then?" asked the elf who had answered him before. "We cannot defy the will of the Valar."

"No," said Atatyaro, "but I am going to prove to them – to them and the whole of Valinor – that a son of Fëanáro can only cause one thing – unhappiness."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter is basically a flashback, to the time of the Trees. It illustrates in brief Atatyaro's life, and why he hates Makalaurë so much. **

**Chapter Six**

Vienandë was a talented bard from the university of Alqualondë, and the son of a pair of bakers. He had in his early youth had shown an affinity for playing the lyre, and even though both his father and his brother wanted him to become a lore master, had been permitted to go to the music school. His brother, Atatyaro, was not pleased with his decision, but he loved him dearly, so he said nothing of it. Atatyaro himself preferred libraries and studies to music rooms, and before long was considered an intelligent and hard working elf, ever trying to improve the standards of art and science in Alqualondë.

It was the second time Vienandë had gone to Tirion for a performance, when he came back home excited and red in the face.

"What is it?" asked Atatyaro, looking up from his papers, when his brother came in, running his fingers through his fine silver hair. Vienandë carelessly dropped his satchel to the floor and stood straight, taking a deep breath.

"I performed with Kanafinwë Makalaurë in a duet."

Atatyaro raised an eyebrow. "Really? That son of Fëanáro?" Atatyaro had never liked the sullen High Prince, but his brother did not care much for titles and for rumours of spirits that were too hot for their bodies.

"Yes." He actually sounded a little guilty for some reason. Atatyaro noticed.

"Why are you looking so abashed? Did you muck up the performance?"

"Well, no," he replied, knitting his brows together.

"Then what?"

"Well, actually, I was just a substitute. The Eef who was meant to play with him did not show up."

Atatyaro burst into laughter, throwing down his quill and putting his head in his hands. "Is that all? One would have thought you had stuffed a plum into Makalaurë's mouth and made him choke in front of the whole audience. That would have been quite a sight, come to think of it."

"Elemmírë was meant to play with him." Vienandë said, ignoring his brother's comment.

"That Vanya? I don't know why they even take those people in our schools. Most of them can sing, but have not our love for music."

"This one certainly does," Vienandë mumbled in almost offended tones. Atatyaro paused, then changed the subject. "Anyway, what was the performance like?"

"Wonderful. The crowd cheered and clapped till I thought I would go deaf. Though I suppose they loved Makalaurë more than me."

"Nonsense. What's he like, anyway?"

"Makalaurë? Rather typically Noldorin. Arrogant, yes, but otherwise very amiable and kind – and knowledgeable." His face lit up. "I daresay we could become good friends."

A shadow passed over Atatyaro's brow, like a cloud momentarily blocking out the sun. "I would not advise you to do that, brother. These Fëanorians are dangerous bunch. I can see it in their eyes, especially their father's."

Vienandë sighed. "They have their mother also."

"Nerdanel is perhaps more patient than her husband, but she is also strong of will."

"There is nothing wrong with that."

Atatyaro shook his head. "You are so gullible. One day you'll wake up and see Makalaurë betray you. This I promise. Heed my words, and don't become close to him."

Vienandë remained silent. He did not want to tell his brother that he had already become fast friends with the Noldo. The two had spent the evening after their performance sharing a flagon of wine, along with honey-cakes from Valmar, laughing and talking till the Lights mingled.

But he looked up and said:

"All right, Atyo. I will do as you bid."

Atatyaro grunted and cupped his chin in his hand. "Good. Now are you hungry? You've been riding all day. Supper is in the kitchen."

* * *

One could discern little about Atatyaro at first glance, for he seemed secretive and a shade cold. Most people preferred to steer clear of him. Nonetheless, he was an honest elf, hardworking and diligent, with an almost unhealthy level of loyalty. People would see him walking down the streets, a strange, slender youth, with a sagacious brow and thin lips, wearing a dark grey cloak, and immediately think there was something strange about him.

It was rather the contrary. Aside from his slightly unusual nature, there was nothing particularly corrupt in him. Atatyaro would visit the local library, pull out a few thick, leather-bound books and a quill pen, and either sit there for the rest of the day, or come back to his home, and return the books a week later.

If he had a problem, it was that he was too straightforward. He was a rigid person, slow to forgive and slower to forget someone who had wronged him or anyone else.

Even if that someone was himself.

Once, when Atatyaro was a mere child of thirty, he and his brother had decided to skip their tuition in order to sneak off to the beach and play in the cool, grey-green water. The guilt Atatyaro felt had been almost unbearable afterwards, and he confessed what he had done to his father the next day.

"Father," he said in a solemn voice. "I have wronged you, and I have wronged my teachers."

"What in heaven's name are you talking about, Atyo?" his father had said, in an apathetic tone.

"I skipped school yesterday so I could play. I do not ask for forgiveness, but punishment. Do what you will with me." He made no mention of his brother.

His father was so surprised at this admittance that he accidentally crushed the basket he was making with his hands. "I am glad you told me the truth, Ato," he said at length, in a gentle voice. "Very well. You will come back home from school and help me with my baking for a week. That is all."

Atatyaro nodded, bowed, and turned to leave the room. His father stopped him, a curious look in his eye.

"Atatyaro. Why did you tell the truth? What exactly gave you the courage?"

Atatyaro half-twisted his head so that his father could see his face. "An honest person has nothing to fear," he said, and left.

* * *

_The Light of the Trees has ended. _

Atatyaro ran his fingers across the page he was studying. Before him sat a book about architecture and engineering, and all his attention was needed to understand the complicated equations, which, to any inexperienced minds, would appear only as the markings of ants, as if they had dipped themselves into the inkpot that lay on the table and had scrambled all over the page. His father and mother were away at the other end of town, and Vienandë was at the Haven of the Swans, discussing some matters with a friend.

For a long while Atatyaro had sat there, the beeswax candle on his desk casting a flickering light over his face and his book. Years had passed since his brother had performed with Makalaurë, and though he had not forgotten it, the memory lay in the deep recesses of his mind like a shadow. At present he was so absorbed in his studies that he did not hear the knock that came at the front door of his house. He started when it was repeated, louder and with more haste.

"Who is it?" he called, dragging back his chair and putting his quill at the parting of the page.

"Felyawentë," came the answer. He was one of Atatyaro's fellow students. "Open the door! You need to come out."

"Why? What has happened?"

"The Noldor have invaded the Havens and are manning the ships on Fëanáro's command! There is a battle going on, and your brother is in it! Get out!"

Atatyaro rushed to the open door, not bothering to blow out the candle or torches, and, blindly, began to run to the Havens with his friend. His mind, so unaccustomed to not thinking, was blank. This bare and naked frame of mind frightened him, but what frightened him most was the thought of his brother. If he was hurt or worse, Atatyaro would not be able to bear it. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

He ran till he thought the wind would be squeezed from his lungs, and when he reached the Haven of the Swans he stopped short. The sight was one like he had never seen before. The corpses of elves were strewn here and there, floating in the water, or dangling from ropes. Noldor and Teleri were killing each other right and left. Pools of blood were on the stone ground, and dripping from the sides of the swan ships. For a while he thought he was in a terrible dream.

But then he shook himself awake, and began to call his brother's name. He ran amidst the crowd of archers and swordsmen, heedless of his own safety. It was barely any use. Too many people had silver hair, and too many people had the slender frame of Vienandë. However, just as all hope had faded from his mind, and he was about to break down and sob, a hand caught his shoulder. It was Felyawentë. Atatyaro looked down from his blood-stained face, his matted black hair, into the body that lay in his arms. Vienandë. A deep slit in his chest indicated clearly that he was dead.

Atatyaro collapsed to his knees and caressed his brother's face. "Who?" he barely managed to whisper. Felyawentë averted his eyes.

"A son of Fëanáro. That traitor, Makalaurë."

Atatyaro blacked out.

* * *

Makalaurë and Tyelkormo had been on one of the ships, blindly fighting. Makalaurë had already received a wound in the shoulder, and his strokes were more or less sloppy. He was cutting through every person with silver hair his eyes fell upon. The only thing present in his mind was the commanding and seductive words of his father: _Kill every Teler you can find._

He brandished his sword, nearly wounding his brother in his nearly blind strokes. A voice was calling his name, but he heard it as if it was from a dream or memory.

"Makalaurë! _Stop!_"

Makalaurë twisted round, caught a flash of silver hair, and thrust his blade forward. Two gasps simultaneously penetrated the air. One was the pitiful death-gasp of Vienandë, and the other was the shocked gasp of Makalaurë, who had just killed his own friend. He snapped out of his frenzy. He yanked back his sword and caught Vienandë, but the Teler was dying.

"Vienandë! No!" Makalaurë wailed, wishing to tear out his hair. But Vienandë did not reply. A dark red stain was blossoming on his tunic, creeping outwards like ants out of an anthill. For a moment Makalaurë only crouched down, motionless. Then he groaned painfully, let a few stray tears drip down his cheeks, and laid his friend against the balustrade. He kissed Vienandë's brow and straightened his collar. Then, brows knitted together and teeth clenched, he ran. For the rest of the battle, he only pretended to fight.

While all this was happening, Felyawentë had only the time to look up, see Makalaurë's blade slice through Vienandë's chest, and fight and jostle through the hoard of fighting elves to get on the ship. By then Makalaurë had gone.

* * *

Atatyaro had woken up in his own bed. His parents were not present, but Felyawentë was squatting down at eye-level. Atatyaro did not wait for his friend to say anything. The first words he spoke, clenching his fists so hard they went white, were:

"A curse on these Fëanorians. May they die a dog's death."

* * *

**Notes**:

**Atyo - Atatyaro's nickname. In hindsight, I wish I had picked a better (and shorter) name. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Light shone with a red hue behind his lids as Makalaurë tried frantically to open his eyes. He rolled over, ripped off the duvet, and sat with his head in his hands and his knees apart. A fortnight had passed since his coming to Valinor, and nightmares of his past still plagued his mind during sleep. As he slowly let his fingers part so that he could open his eyes, the dim, shadowy chimera of Uldor faded into the recesses of his mind. Why Uldor? Was he not a traitor? Did he not deserve to die?

_Did you not deserve to die?_ asked a voice inside his head. He shook his head to rid himself of the image of Uldor groveling at his feet, begging him not to kill him. He had killed him anyway, driving his sword in black fury through his throat, and then wiping his blade on the grass and tucking it neatly into its scabbard. A choked sob passed through his lips, and he slid to the cold, bare ground, hugging his knees.

A knock came at the door. Makalaurë ignored it, dropping his head as if to shut out the noise. The knock was repeated, louder.

"Makalaurë?" His mother's voice buzzed through the wood. She opened the door and started. Then she sighed, shook her head, and walked over to him, hunkering down and wrapping her arms about him.

"You poor, silly boy," she murmured, letting his head rest on her chest. Makalaurë bit his lip hard, nearly drawing blood. In the midst of the turmoil of his mind, he managed to remember his days as a child. He would cringe and wipe his cheek fiercely if his mother ever kissed him then, and positively glow crimson if she ever happened to embrace him like this. It did not matter now. He had been deprived of care for so many years that it would not matter if his mother began to tie his laces in public.

And now, after an interval of seemingly innumerable years, it was Nerdanel who stitched his tunics and who carefully brushed and braided his hair while he cast his eyes to his fingers. It was Nerdanel who taught him how to use the newly developed 'taps' in the washrooms - the left for hot water and the right for cold. Once, Makalaurë had accidentally left the left tap to fill his tub entirely, and screamed when he stepped in. His shock had caused him to stumble and collapse in the tub, and scald his entire body up to the neck. His mother chided him for being so careless, but she dabbed at his blistered skin with ice wrapped in a towel, and kissed his forehead. Makalaurë had grumbled about new 'technology' being too bothersome, and about how he missed the times when he could simply heat water in a pot and pour it into the tub.

But Nerdanel would not let him do much. She was frightened by his gaunt face and raw-boned shoulders and thin hands - hands that had once been so strong and reassuring - and by his disquieting silence. When she touched his knee, she felt it would snap. Unfortunately, he refused to eat.

"Káno," she said, tilting his chin up. "Do not cry so, my love. I'm here."

"I am sorry," he whispered against the fabric of her dress. Tears were still spurting down his cheeks. Nerdanel wiped them away with her thumb.

"Why are you sorry? Do you think I find it an ordeal to hold my own son, and to comfort him when he is in need?" Suddenly she smiled brightly, brushing back his hair with her fingers.

"In any case, you might feel better today. Someone is coming, and is very eager to meet you."

"Who?" asked Makalaurë, curiosity getting the better of him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. They were sore and red from fatigue and crying. He felt like a child, helpless and embarrassingly weak.

"It's a surprise."

"What time is our guest arriving?" he enquired. Nerdanel glanced at the late morning light that was streaming through the tall window.

"Around an hour. He will stay for lunch, and probably for supper as well."

Makalaurë began to get a vague idea as to who this person might be. He brooded on it for a while, and by the time the doorbell gave a clang, he knew. His breath caught in his throat as Nerdanel opened the door to reveal a tall, burly elf with flaming red hair that was scraped back into an short, unruly braid. Bits of hair sprang out from the sides of his head like dry wool. He wore a laced tunic, patterned with cloth-of-gold, and supple boots of black leather that reached his large knees.

"Grandfather Mahtan!" Makalaurë gasped, rushing forward despite himself. Within a second he felt a pair of enormously strong arms embrace him and nearly lift him off the ground.

"Makalaurë," he said fondly, stroking his grandson's hair. He stepped back and eyed him up and down. "What is this? You're positively emaciated!"

"He refuses to eat, Father." Nerdanel strode up to him and kissed his cheek. Mahtan sniffed and cocked an eyebrow. "He will eat in my presence, that is for sure."

Makalaurë had never had the strength or the heart to deny his maternal grandfather. He craned his neck to look behind Mahtan. "Where is Grandmother?"

"She will visit another time. Right now, she is busy with some work." He draped an arm over Makalaurë's shoulder and started propelling him towards a sitting room near the front of the house. "Let us chat for a while."

They talked long into the afternoon, abandoning lunch and instead nibbling bits of bread and cheese. Makalaurë was afraid that Mahtan would ask about the Silmarils, and for him to narrate his horrific experiences in Middle-earth, but he did not, and Makalaurë eventually relaxed. Even so, he had a few questions that had been nagging at his mind for a while, and which he had not asked his mother yet: he had simply felt too afraid.

"Mother," he said, turning to Nerdanel. She gave him an enquiring look. "Yes?"

"Failawendë…did she visit you after I left?" Saying those words were like swallowing sand. Failawendë and Nerdanel had turned out to be good friends, and before his marriage to her Failawendë had often come to visit, mostly for seeing him, but also for meeting his mother. Sometimes he would end up sulking, playing chess with Maitimo, while the two ladies chatted into the night. But it was all in fond memory.

Nerdanel sighed and placed her plate down on the table. "She came a few times, yes," she said. "But I feel it was only out of courtesy, and she rarely stayed for more than an hour."

That probably meant Failaendë would never forgive him.

Sensing his grandson's discomfort, Mahtan quickly changed the subject. "You know, I always did love the way you sang. Remember those little performances you used to do when you were a lad, right after supper? We would all gather round you and hush each other; so beautiful was your voice. I am sure it still is."

Suddenly Makalaurë felt no desire to stay in the stuffy room. He cleared his throat and rose from his seat. "Mother, Grandfather, may I be excused?"

Nerdanel gave him a sympathetic look. "You may," she said.

"Come back, though," said Mahtan. "You have a tendency to disappear all too often."

Makalaurë nodded, bowed, and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. His head was in a daze, and his feet seemed to move automatically, taking him to the back of the house where a serpentine staircase was. He paused for a moment, and then began to climb. No torches lit the walls; it was pitch dark. But he could see well, and had little trouble finding his way up. A while later his hand brushed against a rotted wooden door; there was no lock. He pushed it open with ease, wincing as the bright afternoon light momentarily dazzled his eyes.

He was standing on a balcony, its railings broken in places, and planks of wood leaning against the walls. The mound of Ezellohar could be seen in the distance, and beyond that the fair gardens of Lórien. He could smell freshly cut grass and the faint scent of the Sea from the Calacirya. The sun burned warm above, beating down on his hair and back; it was not an unpleasant feeling. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to push memories of his wife into the back of his mind, and found it impossible.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, quietly, "Ah, Failawendë."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/n: This chapter is a flashback to when Maglor and Faila met. **

**Chapter Eight**

Failawendë breathed in and smelled the salty wind that blew across the sands and against the mighty cliffs that rose from the rocky ground far on the left. Laurelin was waning, and the sea was alight with pale gold hues, stark against the dark blue of the rolling water and its churning white froth. She walked closer to the edge of the water and felt her feet sink into the soft, wet sand. Lifting her skirts so they would not get stained, she went on, humming softly to herself, watching the rise and fall of the waves. It was very calm, even for a day on the beach near Alqualondë.

She had barely walked for another quarter hour when she heard something ahead. Someone was singing in a voice that was deep and rich, yet at the same time supple and playful, flexible as a willow-branch. It matched the rhythm of the sea, and she felt her skin pucker into gooseflesh. Rubbing her arms, she advanced along the sharp curve of the beach as the water branched inland, and found a youth sitting against a rock, his long legs stretched out before him, playing a lyre with skilled fingers. Some children were scattered about him, lying on their bellies or sitting and hugging their knees, listening with rapt attention. Failawendë could hardly praise or blame them; the harpist was singing wonderfully.

He must have caught sight of her, for he stopped playing and turned his head in her direction, breaking off in mid-song. The children leapt to their feet, annoyed and scowling, and demanded why she had to come and ruin their fun. The youth put his hands up and said in a reasonable tone, "Now, you lot! You do not speak to strangers in that manner." He stood up, far taller than Failawendë had guessed him to be, and put his harp in a satchel that was lying on the sand nearby. He turned back to the children. "Pipe down, now. I have played for nigh on an hour, and am tired. Let me be a while!"

Indignant cries came from the children. One of them, a sullen dark boy with red spots on his cheeks, muttered, "We came here because of you. You cannot stop playing."

"I can, Moryo, and I shall," replied the youth, and then turned to Failawendë. "Please forgive them. My brother and his friends can be excessively rude."

_So can you_, she thought, surprised at herself. The harpist inclined his head at an angle, as if guessing her thoughts, and gave a crooked grin. His long sable hair was unruly, and dotted with sand; it stirred in the wind. His clothes were simple but well-tailored, the laces of his jerkin were strung with semi-precious stones, and he wore an iridescent mother-of-pearl pendant at his throat. He was sharp-featured and slender, but looked strong and hale, as well, with a wide clear brow and clever fingers. He was clearly of Noldorin blood.

His brother Moryo scowled and grasped his trouser-leg. "Don't look at her!" he cried in jealousy.

"Moryo!" came a sharp voice from the right. Failawendë looked up to see an exceedingly tall elf with strange, reddish hair that was held away from his face with a silver clip. His eyes gleamed as he came up to them and turned to the harpist. "Are you in trouble?" he asked. "Shall I take them away? You've had them for long enough."

"I am," came the reply, "and yes, please." He looked at Failawendë again, and said, "My other brother, Maitimo."

"And you have made a friend," said Maitimo, giving her a nod. Failawendë felt a little dizzy from being around so many people who were talking to her; she had not yet said a word; moreover she was not used to a lot of company.

Maitimo continued, "I will take this rowdy lot away, and give you some peace. Heaven knows you need it." He took his little brother by the shoulder and asked, "Will you be coming with us, Káno?"

"No," said the dark youth, "I shall walk along the shores for a while – at home there will be only chaos."

The two brothers exchanged glances and wide grins, as if at a family joke, and then Maitimo reared the children away towards the city of Alqualondë. A somewhat awkward silence fell between the two that were left. The harpist suddenly took a deep breath and said, "At last! Some relief from them!" He stretched, closing his thick-lashed eyes, and asked Failawendë, "Are you walking, too?"

"Yes," she replied, a little uneasy.

"Walk with me, then? I wouldn't mind a single companion – especially if she is not a four-year-old child!" he said, laughing. He ran his fingers through his hair and said, "I am Makalaurë. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Makalaurë," she repeated, as if tasting the word. "I think I have heard the name. Yes, I am sure I have..."

He ignored her statement, picked up his satchel, and began to stroll towards the sea. Failawendë was tempted to throw a large stone at him and walk the other way, but something made her follow him, as if they were bound together at the waist with string. She fell in step beside him, not talking, as they passed salt-and-pepper cliffs, boulders smoothed with erosion, and glints of pearls and many-coloured gems half-buried in the sand. Those gems were considered to be a part of the beach, and none picked them up. Not all folk of Valinor were very wealthy, but there was never a lack of food or comfort, though some people lived without great luxury.

They did not talk, and Failawendë kept her eyes lowered to her feet. She noticed his own feet seemed elegant and well taken care of, as if he had several pots of the expensive bath-salts and oils available in the small but opulent stores in the cities.

"Are you the son of a merchant?" she asked timidly, playing with a lock of her hair. He shook his head, and she said, annoyed, "You are cryptic beyond measure. Why did you ask me to walk with you if you do nothing but ignore me?"

He glanced at her. "As I said: I wished for a companion." Failawendë was about to turn her heel and leave when he added, "It is getting dark; would you like to share my food with me?"

What an odd person, she thought, as he sat down on the soft white sand and began to rummage through his satchel. He was right; The Lights were mingling, and the gold tint in the air was now mingled with silver.

As she sat down beside him he brought out a skin of wine, a bottle of water, seeded bread, hard cheese and dried meat. He broke the bread in half and handed the larger part to her. She took it, but did not eat. Makalaurë was sitting cross-legged, now cutting the cheese with a knife. "Don't worry," he said, startling her. "There is food aplenty. You can always join us for dinner later if you still feel under-fed, though I suppose the stuff back home would already be eaten by several hungry mouths." He laughed quietly to himself.

"You are lost in your own world," said Failawendë with some wonder. "I cannot make head or tail of you, Makalaurë of Tirion, though you do intrigue me."

"You also," he said, wryly arching an eyebrow, "have not given me your good name."

Failawendë's eyes widened and he placed a hand over her mouth in shame. As she wagged her mouth, he continued, "So you see, my dear, you are as cryptic as I am, whether you believe it or not."

She gave a huff of indignation. "My name is Failawendë. I am from Alqualondë."

"What a beautiful place to live in," he said, rapidly changing the course of the conversation, making her feel dizzier than before. He had now started tearing the meat into small bits with his hands. "I wish I could live there, but alas, I would miss my family too much – I am attached to them, aggravating as they are."

Failawendë was at a loss for what to say. In the end she settled for a safe observation. "Your brother has a very fine face – and such an odd shade of hair."

"Yes. He has our father's looks and our mother's red hair – he got the best of both worlds, I suppose." He opened the wine-skin and held it out to her. She did not take it.

"Your mother's red hair," she murmured. "That would make you..."

"My father is the High Prince, yes," he said apathetically. "And my mother is Nerdanel, the sculptor."

Failawendë gasped and quickly got to her feet. "Oh!" she cried, putting her hands on her head. "What a fool I have been!"

Makalaurë put his skin down and said, "Calm down. I've no intentions of acting like a prince in your presence. Here, I am just Makalaurë. Not Kanafinwë Fëanorion."

"Oh, but...you..."

"Please sit down, Failawendë," he said, more earnestly than she thought was possible. His hand was slightly outstretched, as if pleading for her not to leave. She obeyed, sitting down with her knees tucked beneath her, her fists clenched. Her breathing was heavy, and her eyes downcast.

Her head jerked up when she felt a warm hand cover her own. "I urge you," he said. "I am only Makalaurë, a bard and a poet – nothing more. It is not often I am greeted with honesty, or am allowed to break bread with a fellow elf without bearing in mind politics or academics."

"You say that, my lord," she said, using his correct title. "But I cannot think of you now as anything but a prince, with your necklet and your jewels and your hair scented with balm."

He withdrew his hand, looking hurt, and she noticed his disquieting dark eyes, gleaming in the dimming light. "That is precisely why I wished not to reveal my identity. You think of me only as a figurehead who sits in his extravagant chambers and who holds talks with high lords and ladies, and who dines with the king and has only himself to care about." He turned his head towards the sea. "But it is not so. I, like you, have a family I hold dear to my heart, passions I wish to pursue, books I wish to read, and friends I want to make. I have three brothers, Failawendë of Alqualondë, all of whom drive me mad and yet whom I would gladly throw myself off a battlement for. I have a mother who is constantly engrossed in her work, and a father who is very strict but also fiery and ambitious – both would die for me. I live the same life you do, only with _mithril_ around my wrists. Would you rob me of my humanity by reducing me to an unfeeling machine?"

Failawendë was stricken. She had not expected such a speech. She chewed her lip, guilty, and said, averting her eyes, "Forgive me, my lord. You are right; I was being arrogant."

He lifted her chin with a finger, and she fought to not shiver at his touch. "There is nothing to forgive. I only ask you to get rid of that title, and call me by my name."

"Makalaurë," she acknowledged, giving a slight nod, and even feeling her lips curl in a smile.

They finished the food and dusted their clothes, feeling warm and full. Makalaurë looked at the sky. "The stars have come out. How they glimmer!" He held out his elbow. "Come. We shall go to the city together. Where do you live?"

Failawendë took his arm and said, "Near the university – I study there."

"Splendid. I am living at the palace with King Olwë. That is not too far from the university, or so I hear."

They walked into the city, passing the Haven of the Swans with their white ships and bright lanterns, and towers of pearl and silver, inlaid with precious stones in the shapes of flowers and leaves. As they neared the university towards the center of Alqualondë, Makalaurë reached for a branch of an arching willow tree on the boulevard, deftly cut it off with his knife, and promptly began to fiddle with it. Failawendë was by now too accustomed to his feyness to ask what he was doing, and politely stared ahead.

But when they reached her home, an old bungalow with fine wooden beams and yellow light flaring from mullioned windows, Makalaurë caught her by the wrist and held up the willow-branch. He had twisted it into the shape of a lily, complete with the stem and the carpel. Though made out of a mere branch, it was fit for a queen, or perhaps a little forest-spirit dressed in leaves and sewn hemp. His skill was extraordinary.

"Makalaurë!" she cried softly. He stepped forward and swiftly placed it in her hair above the ear. "Beautiful," he said, making her cheeks grow warm. He twisted his head, looking over his shoulder, and then back to her. "I will go now. I hope to meet you again." He inclined his head in a bow, gave one last, crooked smile, and went away, walking along the pavement. As he was about to disappear she called, "Will I truly meet you again, though?"

"Surely," came the reply, and then he was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/n: Since the flashbacks in this chapter are not 'full chapter flashbacks', they will be in italics.**

**Chapter Nine**

Nerdanel straightened her skirts and patted down her hair as she heard the doors being opened for a guest. Before the guest could be announced she reached the Great Hall and saw who it was. "Lord Elrond!" she said, a smile forming on her face. Elrond smiled back, handing his travelling cloak to the porter, who took it and hung it on a coat rack. "Lady Nerdanel," he greeted, bowing slightly. "How do you fare? I hope I do not come at an inconvenient time?"

"Not at all. Would you like anything to drink?"

"Water would be lovely, thank you," he replied.

They sat in the garden beneath a white-plum tree, a bowl of fruits set on the wrought-iron table between them, along with a decanter filled with yellow wine. The heavy scent of flowers pervaded their noses, and Elrond breathed deep. "Your gardener does a fine job," he said, sighing at the smell. "I ought to plant a few of these trees at my own house." He straightened and took a sip of his wine; the goblet was made of burnished silver, studded with coral stones; he could see his distorted reflection in it. "Tell me, how is Maglor? I have not seen him since after the judgement."

Nerdanel sighed through her nose and set down her goblet. "He rarely goes out, and talks little. I have trouble getting him to eat, as well."

"May I ask you a favour?"

Nerdanel looked up. "What is it?"

Elrond steepled his fingers and said, "I would like to invite Maglor to a banquet at my house. I will not ask him to stay long, but I would appreciate it if he at least turned up."

Nerdanel averted her eyes and pursed her lips.

"I promise – "

Just then Maglor came sauntering into the garden, barefoot and with his hair unbound. He stopped when he saw the two sitting nearby. "Elrond!" he said, smiling. "What brings you to our humble abode?"

"You, actually," said Elrond solemnly. He stood up. "May I speak to you inside, Maglor, if you do not mind?"

They excused themselves and went up to Maglor's chambers, and Elrond took a breath and said, "Listen, Maglor, I would like you to come to my house for a couple of hours in three days' time. There is a feast, and several of my friends, as well as my wife, will be there. Will you come?"

Maglor's face darkened. "Elrond – "

"I know you are afraid of what people think," cut in Elrond, "but you cannot stay locked up in this house forever. It would be practically the same as wandering the shores with a threadbare tunic on your back and no one to talk to."

"Do not make this hard for me."

"I am worried about you, Maglor, and your mother is worried too. Neither of us wants you to suffer so. Why do you do this to yourself?" He stopped and took a seat beside his foster-father. "Nothing will make me happier, Maglor," he said softly. "When I was a boy, you comforted me, though I initially hated you for capturing me brother and me. But it turned out all right. Do you remember the love that grew between us, Maglor? Do you realise the love I still have for you?"

Makalaurë's brow smoothed out, and his gaze fell to his knees. "I…" He had not expected such an answer. But Elrond had already fallen into deep memories of the First Age in Beleriand.

"_Be still," Elrond whispered hoarsely to his brother. Elros pressed his lips together. He could not even find the strength to nod. Since flight and fighting were both impossible, they had hidden themselves under a cloth, pretending no one could see them. Just then the door swung open, and the sound of footsteps penetrated their ears as someone walked stealthily around the room._

_Makalaurë swept his gaze across the hall. There was nothing there except upturned furniture and bundles of curtains and old cloth lying around. The place was besprinkled with fresh dirt and sunlight streamed through a window and flooded the floor. He twisted his head, sighed when he could find nothing, and turned to leave. A loud sneeze made him whip round again, and he narrowed his eyes and clutched his sword in his hand. "Come out, coward," he called loudly. A small lump of red cloth began to tremble alarmingly, and Makalaurë marched towards it. He ripped off the fabric, ready to kill whoever was under it, but stopped dead when he saw what it was. It was a pair of children –twins – barely past their sixth summer. Their faces were soaked in tears and dried blood; one of them clutched a tattered stuffed bunny in his small hand. Both had dark hair and grey eyes – just like him, only his hair was long and braided warrior-style, and his eyes were fey._

_He dropped the cloth and stared at them for a while. They seemed to be frozen, more shocked than he was, and undoubtedly more frightened. He was still gaping at them when he heard someone come up behind him. It was Maitimo._

"_I think they are Elwing's sons," Makalaurë said quietly. Maitimo looked away._

"_Well then. What do you want to do? Kill them? Take them as hostages?" he said bitterly._

"_Neither."_

_Maitimo looked at him._

"_Brother, when you searched Doriath for Elúred and Elúrin, I refused to help you. I said it was hopeless, that you would never find them. I am sorry for that. Now please, do not deny me in helping these children, Maitimo. I am sick of this Oath. So sick of it…" He held out a hand to gently wipe one of the children's faces. He shrank back as if Makalaurë were a snake. Maitimo sighed._

"_Well. Then at least sheath your sword. You are frightening them."_

_Makalaurë did as he was told. Then he turned to the children. "What are your names, little ones?" he asked. They did not reply, and one began to sob. Makalaurë looked helplessly at his brother._

"_Maitimo – ?"_

"_Just pick one up and sit him on your horse. I'll take the other. We can calm them down on the way."_

_They bundled up the twins, wiped their faces and took them away on their horses. Elrond could barely think when he felt a pair of armoured arms hoist him up and then wrap protectively around him. He glanced to the side to see his brother being handled by the dark-haired one. The Noldo leaned down and said something in his ear. Elros shook his head, and the Elf smiled sadly and snapped the reins._

"_What is your name?"_

_He started in his seat. It was the red-haired one who was sitting behind him._

"_Elrond."_

"_Star-dome," he whispered, smiling. "A nice name. Do not worry, child. We are taking you to safety."_

_Elrond felt tears sting his eyes. "Where is my mother?" he said, lips wobbling._

"_She is alive. Though I do not know where she is. If I hear from her, my brother and I will return you both to her."_

_That was not helpful at all. Suddenly the other rider came up close to them and nodded. "Forgive my discourtesy, little one. My name is Maglor, in your tongue. I am told your name is Elrond?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Well, Elrond…" he broke off, pursing his lips, and then rode ahead._

_Elrond resented his two kidnappers from the start, especially Maedhros. Not because he was cruel to them, but because of how unnatural he seemed. Everything was odd about him. His bright red hair, his missing hand, his imposing height…Elros was so frightened of him he would duck behind Elrond every time he saw him. Maglor would try and comfort them, win them over, but they hated him too._

_One day, when Elrond and his brother had been left alone in a tent, and Makalaurë and Maitimo were quietly discussing some issues, Elrond got a rather daring idea. He crept close to Elros._

"_Let us run away."_

_Elros stared._

"_Come on! They're not looking. I want to find Naneth."_

"_Elrond, that will be hard! And we cannot survive the woods alone."_

_Elrond drew from his satchel, which was sitting at his feet, a long white knife. He held it up. "I stole it from Maglor. We'll be fine."_

"_No, Elrond. This is too dangerous. I can't. I won't."_

_So they ended up packing their few possessions in small bags, sneaking out of the camp and running off deep into the woods._

_The next morning there was a hue and cry in the camp. Maitimo nearly went mad asking everyone if they had seen the twins, and Makalaurë was frantic, searching everywhere for them._

_Maitimo heaved a sigh. "They have run off into the forest. I am certain of it."_

_Makalaurë gritted his teeth. "Then let's look for them."_

_The search went on for a day and a half, because the twins' feet were small, and they had somehow managed to confuse their tracks. In the end Maitimo found them, huddled under an oak tree, shivering with cold and hunger. He gathered them up in his arms, ignoring the weak protests that came from their mouths, and carried them back to the camp with his brother. Makalaurë sat them down in front of him and tried to look as stern as he could._

"_You cannot run away like that, boys. It is dangerous out in the woods, or anywhere for that matter, if you are so young and also unarmed. I know you dislike being with us, but think of what would happen if you were caught by a band of Orcs, or attacked by a bear? What would you do then, if we were not there to save you?" He took them firmly by the shoulders and tucked them into bed. "I don't want to see you sneaking off again, you hear?" Then he dropped his voice. "Your safety is my top priority, as strange as it may seem to you." He gently stroked Elrond's brow; the Half-elf flinched away. Makalaurë withdrew his hand and exited the tent._

_It wasn't until they reached Amon Ereb that the twins even began to accept the Fëanorians._

_Elros dove under the covers of his bed as the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed like drums in the sky. Elrond was asleep, his thumb jammed in his mouth, but Elros was so afraid of the storm that he simply could not sleep. "Mother," he whimpered. The thunder crashed again, and he leapt up and ran from his room, his toy still in his hand (Makalaurë had packed it in his satchel during the sack of Sirion). He warily looked at the large oak-wood door that led to Makalaurë's room. His bare feet were stiff and frozen with the cold, though they were resting on a deep maroon carpet. When another flash of lightning came, he blindly twisted the brass handle and shoved open the door. A figure sat up with a jolt in the large four-poster bed._

"_Who is there?" it asked groggily. Elros did not move. Makalaurë unrolled himself from his duvet and advanced towards him. He squatted low and peered at him._

"_Elros? What is it? Are you having trouble sleeping?" he asked gently. He looked a bit strange in his loose, blue tunic and his hair all undone. _

_Elros began to cry._

"_I want Mother," he burbled, dropping his toy. Makalaurë raised his eyebrows a fraction, then wrapped his arms about the younger elf and rocked him._

"_I am sorry, Elros," he whispered. Elros sniffed and mumbled something incoherent against his chest. _

_"Look, do you want something to eat? Something to drink? Can I give you some milk and honey?"_

_Elros sniffed. He _had _been feeling rather hungry. "Yes," he said mournfully. Makalaurë rose from his haunches, rubbed Elros' back and carried him into the kitchens. They were downstairs, and Elros felt the small bumps as Makalaurë descended the steps. When they reached, he set him on a counter and began to hustle around for a cup and some milk._

"_Here," he said, putting the mug in Elros' hands. Elros took a sip. It was warm and sweet; the honey was of good quality. He quickly drained his cup. When he was done, he yawned._

"_Are you sleepy?"_

"_Hmm…"_

"_Do you want to go back to your room? Or shall I let you into my bed?"_

_Elros fidgeted. "With you, if it's all right…"_

_Makalaurë bundled him in his arms again and took him outside. Elros blocked his view, so he didn't see the small thing he bumped into and nearly knocked over._

"_Oh!" he said, surprised, when he saw Elrond standing there, rubbing his shoulder and looking slightly indignantly at him. "Elrond! Did I hurt you?"_

"_No," he said, a little sourly. Elros cracked open an eye._

"_I thought you were asleep."_

"_I woke up when I heard you go out."_

_Makalaurë could sense the slight tension in the air, so he quickly intervened. "Elrond, would you like a cup of hot milk? If you can wait, Elros, I will tuck you both into my bed, if you like."_

_Elrond looked at him suspiciously for a bit. Then his shoulders slumped and he nodded his head. "I would like that, thank you," he said politely. Elros nodded, already nearly asleep in the warmth of Makalaurë's arms. Makalaurë pushed open the kitchen door with his back and let Elrond in. Then he made another cup of milk and honey and handed it to Elrond._

_Within ten minutes the twins were asleep on the counter. Makalaurë gathered them both in his arms and carried them back upstairs. He tucked them into his bed, Elrond in the middle, Elros on the left, he on the right. In the late morning he woke up with both of them flopped on top of his legs._

"Elrond? Are you all right?"

Elrond snapped out of his daydream. "Yes, I am fine," he said quickly. "Will you come?"

Makalaurë sighed and bowed his head. "Yes," he said finally. "I shall come, if it pleases you."

"It does. I am glad."

* * *

**Amon Ereb is the place where Maedhros resided in Beleriand. Maglor might have dwelt with him. The matter is undecided**.

**The scene where Elros is clutching a stuffed rabbit while Maglor is staring at them was taken from an illustration on DeviantArt.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Both of you take care, now," said Nerdanel, handing Makalaurë his mantle. He took it with a nod of thanks, and then turned to Elrond, who was already standing by the gates, dressed in robes of samite, with a silver circlet around his brow; his dark hair was partially held back with a clip set with a deep blue gem. Makalaurë himself was clad in a cream jacket with gold trimming at the collar and cuffs, along with fine leather sandals clasped with _mithril_.

They stepped into the carriage that was waiting at the gates, and the driver touched the horses' backs with his whip, and the vehicle rolled down the pastures and up the hill of Túna. Elrond pulled back the curtains and gazed at the stars above, while Makalaurë sat with his hands folded on his lap. They fell into an easy silence, and remained that way for most of the journey. Eventually after a couple of hours Elrond took a breath and said, "I promise you nothing will happen to you while you are in my house."

Makalaurë gave him a long look. "Do not say that – you cannot predict what will happen."

"Perhaps not," came the reply, "but I can take measures to prevent potential disaster." He glanced out the window, and saw that they were near to the Mindon. "We have reached."

Makalaurë craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the house, curiosity getting the better of him. It was quite large, with a lush green courtyard dotted with small white flowers that gave off a heavy, sweet scent, and with several large oak trees and dipping willows. A wide stone path wound about the greenery till it reached the large front gates of the house. Yellow lanterns swung from iron poles and from the branches of trees.

"It is beautiful," said Makalaurë truthfully. Elrond smiled and said nothing.

As they entered the Great Hall Makalaurë saw that the perimeter of the white marble walls were exquisitely painted with flowers and leaves in fine paint; obviously a lot of work had gone into it. The floor was inlaid with semi-precious stones in intricate patterns, and several trestle tables laden with food were laid out, along with wooden benches. It was very warm inside, and the Hall was filled with the merry laughter of Elves and the sound of music.

Elrond touched Makalaurë's shoulder and gestured to a table by an unlit hearth. A lady with flowing silver hair studded with white gems and who was clad in a silk lilac dress that revealed her sculpted shoulders was seated there, along with an elf with bright yellow hair and wearing a dark green cloak trimmed with gold, who was holding a cup of wine in an elegant, bejewelled hand. The lady stood when she saw Elrond and Makalaurë approaching, and gave a curtsy.

"Celebrían," said Elrond, "this is Maglor. Do treat him as you would a father. Glorfindel, Maglor, you already know each other." He smiled, his eyes gleaming.

"Well met, my lord," said Celebrían, nodding. "Elrond has spoken much of you."

"It is a pleasure, my lady," replied Makalaurë. "But Elrond compliments me overmuch – I would be happy if you called me Maglor." As he took a seat Glorfindel eyed him. "You have changed, Maglor," he said. "Though I daresay you would rather be here than in Middle-earth!"

"And you, Glorfindel," returned Maglor, folding his arms on the table, "have not changed much at all. I see you still have a cheeky streak in you."

Glorfindel swirled the wine in his cup and took a sip. "That is quite an achievement, after being killed and then reincarnated."

"Must we talk of this?" said Elrond crossly. "We are here to enjoy ourselves, not to mourn our long and sorry lives."

Glorfindel arched an eyebrow. "You are the one in a sorry state, Elrond – you are too serious."

The banter continued for a while, with occasional insults being thrown and laughs cutting the air. Celebrían kept pressing bits of food at Makalaurë, who shook his head and settled for a goblet of red wine and some bread and butter. He found his hostess to be amiable and well-educated, with a strong will that was clearly inherited from her mother. Elrond had done well to marry her.

After a time Elrond suddenly sat up and furrowed his brow. "Where is Erestor? He said he would be here!"

"I think he is in the kitchen," said Celebrían nonchalantly. Elrond grumbled a bit, got up and left. The others resumed their conversation.

"What of Galadriel and Celeborn?" asked Makalaurë.

"Lady Galadriel dwells in Lórien. Lord Celeborn is still in Middle-earth, ruling the remnant of Elves in Lothlórien."

"I see."

They were so busy with their little chat that they did not notice the two elves that were staring at them from an obscure corner of the hall. They were Atatyaro and Felyawentë. Atatyaro was sitting at his table, his elbows folded neatly on it, and his fingers tapping the wood. He was staring at Makalaurë who, engrossed in his talk with Glorfindel, did not notice the weight of that formidable gaze on his head.

Celebrían craned her neck and looked about. She got up. "I am going to find my husband. No doubt he has picked up a good wine and is drowning himself in it." She laughed when she saw Makalaurë's expression. "You forget, my dear Maglor, that he is fully grown." She left. After a quarter of an hour, Glorfindel shook his head. "I will bring them back to you," he said to Makalaurë. "Some people have no manners." He bowed and went away, his cloak stirring behind him.

Makalaurë fidgeted. He did not know what to do, all alone in this massive hall. His gaze caught sight of a small round table by a window, and he went and sat over there, so that he was as hidden from view as possible. He did not, unfortunately, slip out of the vicinity of Atatyaro.

"Felyawentë," he said softly, nodding. Felyawentë shot him a look, nodded in response, grabbed his goblet of wine and began to advance towards Makalaurë, who looked up inquiringly. "May I help you?" he asked.

"You are Makalaurë Fëanorion, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Why are you here?" Felyawentë cocked an eyebrow.

"Apparently, because the Valar have forgiven me."

"It was wrong of them then, to let you come here without asking us if we wanted you here."

"That is not in my hands." He dragged back his chair to leave. But before he could even get up, Felyawentë curled his lip in a sneer.

"You look awfully pale. Perhaps a little wine would add some colour to your face?" he said, and tipped the contents of his goblet over Makalaurë's head. The wine stung his eyes and nose, and he cried out and got up, blindly knocking over a crystal vase of elaborate workmanship that was perching on the table. It tumbled to the ground and shattered into a thousand shards. By now nearly every elf in the hall was staring at them. There were a few bursts of laughter, and some gasps from more compassionate lips, but Makalaurë barely perceived any of it. He got up and groped for a way to the restroom.

"It is up ahead," said a lady with a baby riding on her hip.

"Thank you," he gasped, and rushed forward. Not a few steps later he collided into someone tall and slender, and he lurched sideways with a cry.

"Maglor! What happened to you?" It was Elrond. There had been a quarrel in the kitchen between Erestor and one of the cooks, and Elrond had tried to calm them down, only to be pulled into the argument himself. Celebrían had gone and gotten herself involved too, and it was only when Glorfindel came and intervened that they realised they were being terribly rude.

Elrond gaped as Maglor pushed past him, muttering an apology. He then turned slowly to glare at the people in the hall. "What happened?" he asked, sweeping his gaze across the mass of elves who were now silently looking at him.

"Someone spilled wine over that Noldo's head," ratted a person.

"It was him," added another, pointing to Felyawentë. Elrond advanced towards him, arms folded across his chest. He stopped not three feet away from him, and narrowed his eyes. "Pray, what was the reason of that? Was he harassing you? Or did you simply despise his silent presence?"

"I would go for the latter," Felyawentë replied softly. Elrond's eyes flashed, and even a complete buffoon could tell that the former elf was in more than a little trouble. "If you wish to stoop to that level, to humiliate a man who is innocently attending a banquet – at my command – then kindly do us a favour and step out of my house. I will not tolerate such infantile behaviour." He turned to the rest of them. "Is there anyone who wishes to join him?"

No one answered. Elrond threw a sharp glance at Felyawentë. "Get out," he said flatly. The Teler left. No one saw Atatyaro quietly get up from his place and slip outside.

* * *

Elrond walked quickly to the restroom, hating himself more with every step he took. He had promised Maglor that nothing would happen to him – and something did. All because he had left his side. Why could he not have sent Glorfindel in the first place?

His mind was still in turmoil when he wrenched open the lavatory door, and found Makalaurë with his head bent in the sink, rinsing his eyes with water and gasping. His hair was entirely soaked and matted, his tunic stained with wine.

"Maglor," said Elrond, putting a hand on Maglor's shoulder. "I am so sorry. I should never have…"

"No," he said, rubbing his eyes fiercely and then resting his hands on either side of the sink. Elrond screwed his eyes shut.

"I sent that elf away. He had no right to humiliate you like that. Oh Maglor, forgive me; I was the one who told you to come. And I left you."

"It was not your fault. I should have walked away at first sight. I thought there was something strange about him." He grabbed a towel from its hook and mopped his face and hair. "Anyway, I cannot blame him, or anyone else, for wanting to despise me. Small love they would have for me, after what I have done. I am sorry about the vase," he added wretchedly.

Elrond grasped both of Maglor's shoulders and spun him round to face him. "Never mind the blasted vase. You need to think better of yourself. You have served your sentence, and paid the price. Now let it go. You are only making things harder for yourself. If you keep acting as if you deserve no dignity – and you do – then people will all the more use you as a target. You should know that by now, Maglor." He sighed and tried to look Makalaurë straight in the eye.

But Makalaurë was in such a state that he was in no mood to listen to his foster-son's dimly encouraging speech. He had stepped out for the first time in weeks, only to be humiliated not a few hours later. "I deserve to be persecuted," he whispered bitterly, his hair forming a dark curtain around his cheeks. Elrond's brow smoothed, then creased, and finally his eyes narrowed and he said:

"All right, Maglor." He ripped his hands off Makalaurë's shoulders, and turned his heel. "When you feel that you deserve the ones you love, come back to me. Until then, I bid you farewell." He nodded stiffly and went out, shutting the door crisply behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

It was a few months later, in the height of summer, that Makalaurë was searching for a house to live in in Tirion. Eönwë walked by his side, his face impassive but also slightly bemused. He had been sent to accompany Makalaurë and help him in his search. They had been riding all round the city for days, and had not yet found a place that suited Makalaurë's tastes.

"This is no good," said Makalaurë, dabbing at his forehead with a kercheif. "We will never find a house at this rate." Every landlord or landlady he had contacted had rejected him; the word of his return had spread like wildfire, and few were willing to accept him into their society. Nerdanel had been sighing and telling him to merely stay with her instead of go through all this trouble. What was more, Elrond had not talked to him since the night at his house.

Eönwë said, "We will have to keep looking. It is not easy as it is to find a house – for you it will be harder."

Makalaurë sighed and rubbed his temples.

It was nearing autumn when they were at the border of Tirion, well away from the Mindon but somewhat close to the university, and when Makalaurë was growing annoyed with his constant rejections, that Eönwë found a house situated near a flower-filled garden with alders and pines; it was a small white bungalow with stairs leading to the main door and a gabled roof, and was owned by a Noldorin lady who lived at the foot of the hill. Makalaurë liked it immediately; it was not large, but it was efficient, and it gave him a fantastic view of shimmering Valmar and the forests behind it.

He bought the house, and it took a couple of months before he was settled in. His books, his musical instruments and his clothes were shifted into his bedroom, and he stocked up on plenty of food for the pantry and the kitchen; a marketplace some way down the hill helped him a great deal, and Lord Arafinwë the King had laid down certain regulations he was meant to follow and could be punished severely for not following. This was easy enough; he was simply not to make any mischief, or to aggravate any citizen of Aman.

He adjusted quite well to life alone again. Every two weeks or so he would ride down to Nerdanel's house, and spend a day or two there. On other days he would take a stroll around the city or try and write some music; his skill had deteriorated somewhat during his long exile in Middle-earth, and it took a fortnight or so before he could play as well as he used to. During his long walks or lazy afternoons in the city square, he kept his head lowered for fear of offending anyone, and did not notice the few times when Failawendë would glance at him when on her way to the library.

When he felt too lazy to walk down the hill, he would sit under the cool shade of a tree in the garden in front of his house, and either read or fall asleep. Sometimes, usually in the evening, a little girl would come and plump herself down by the flowers and dreamily gaze at them, humming. She had a mop of silver hair and light grey eyes that seemed almost white when they caught the light. At first both of them felt a little awkward in each other's presence, but they soon got used to each other. They never spoke. The garden was small, and few elves came to sit there, so the two were usually left alone.

One day when the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, Makalaurë had come outside to read a book his mother had recommended to him. He sat down in the garden beneath a shady tree, and opened his book, a compilation of essays by a well-known lore-master. The Telerin girl was there again, and was stroking a ginger cat, her face half-covered by the yellow flowers that sprang from the grass. Makalaurë found it annoying that she was actually talking to it, but there was not much he could do, considering this was not his garden. He sighed and tried to concentrate on his book.

I"It's such a beautiful day, isn't it? Look at the sunlight through the leaves! It actually looks green! See these purple flowers? Mother says they're lilac, but I can't see the difference. They're purple, aren't they?" The poor cat was trying desperately to squirm out of her grasp, but she was oblivious to it's suffering. She kept on chattering, smoothing the pleats of her stained dress.

All of a sudden the cat hissed alarmingly, scratched at her knee with a paw, and bolted away down the street. The girl looked confused for a moment, then looked down at her knee and burst into tears.

Makalaurë was at a loss for what to do. He knew it was not his business to help her, but there seemed to be no one else around. He tucked the book beneath his arm and went over to her. "Let me see that," he said to her. The girl shook her head, holding her knee. Makalaurë gently pried her hand away and found the skin was torn and blood-stained. He said, "Where are your parents, child?"

She sniffed, tears subsiding now. "My father is in the university. He works there."

"And your mother?"

"She is probably at the market place, buying paints for her craft."

Makalaurë raised his brows. "Did your parents let you go off alone, then?" When the girl did not reply, he sighed and continued, "I will treat that cut, and then take you to them. Come, now."

The girl balked, eyeing him suspiciously. "My mother says not to listen to strangers."

"Your mother is right about that, but as of now you don't have much of a choice."

He took the girl's hand and led her to his house, and made her sit on his bed while he rummaged around for a salve and a bandage. She was looking about the room with wide eyes, and her gaze fell upon a silver harp of wonderful craftsmanship. It was lying innocuously by the oak cabinet, un-tuned yet polished.

"Are you a bard?" she asked with wide eyes.

"I used to be," he said, not bothering to look at her as he finished securing the bandage around her knee.

"You don't look like a bard," she said, scrutinising him unabashedly. "Bards wear nicer clothes. And I've never seen you at performances."

Makalaurë raised an eyebrow a fraction and chuckled dryly. "You would be surprised," he muttered under his breath. Her next observation caught him off guard though. "And you can't be a bard, because your hand is blistered."

Makalaurë pressed his lips together. Then he turned sharply, picked up the girl and set her on the floor. "Let us go," he said. The girl tilted her head to one side, undaunted by the coldness of his tone.

"Fine," he said, taking her hand again and leading her out the door.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

They stood in the foyer of the music school, clutching each other's hands. Makalaurë let out a breath as he saw once again the place where he had once spent so much time in. It had gone through some amount of renovation, but was otherwise the same. It was a large chamber; the floor was of white marble, laced with polished green and burgundy stone in a diamond pattern, and the windows were tall and deep, letting in a flood of sunlight. Heavy, intricate tapestries hung from the walls, all of them depicting the Valar, and at the other end of the hall there was a raised platform for performances. A few archways led to adjacent corridors, covered with carpets.

Makalaurë looked at the girl, ignoring his feeling of nostalgia. "Where is your father?"

She scratched her hair. "He's generally in the study."

"There are many studies in this school, if I remember correctly," he replied somewhat dryly.

"When did you last come here?" she piped.

He sighed. "Never mind. Which study?"

"It's a large one. You turn in at the door on the left, and then another at the right."

Makalaurë knew which study she was talking about before she even finished her sentence. "Your father is the dean?" he gasped, gaping at her with wide eyes. When she had said that her father worked there, Makalaurë had assumed she meant he worked as perhaps a musician or an assistant.

"He is."

"Then, for heaven's sake, why did you not tell me?" He sighed irritably, led her to her father's study, and crouched down by her. "Listen to me," he said, "I want you to tell your father that a Noldorin elf helped you get here. You will not say I was a musician, and you will not say what I look like. Do you understand?"

The girl frowned. "But what if he asks me just that?"

"Make something up." He rose. "Good day." But as he was turning to leave, the study door opened and a slender elf with tightly braided silver hair came out; obviously he had heard their voices. He looked at his daughter with gleaming eyes. "Seldárë!" he said crossly. "Where have you been?"

The girl squirmed uncomfortably and tried to tell him what happened, but he cut her off. "I will speak with you later. As of now, go and apologise to your tutors." He used a tone that left no room for disobedience. Seldárë trundled off, her head hanging.

The elf looked properly at Makalaurë, his face relaxing a bit. "I apologise. You were the one who found her?"

"I did," said Makalaurë. "I meant no harm, sir – the girl had cut herself on the knee, and I saw no one else around, so I thought I would take her to her parents."

"That was kind of you. May I know your good name?"

He hesitated. "Makalaurë."

The elf's brows rose slightly, but he gave a thin smile and said, "Well, then. I certainly did not expect that."

"You are Telerin," said Makalaurë with a hint of apology. "I will take my leave now."

"No, wait," said the elf. "I will not treat you with discourtesy, though I cannot promise others here will follow my example. You, too, were the dean here at one time; am I correct?"

"You are," came the reply. "And I am glad the position has fallen into capable hands."

"You don't know that. But let me introduce myself. I am Sarmë, the dean of the music school."

"I knew you were the dean the moment your daughter told me which study you had."

"You were lucky – the dean's chambers had changed at some point, and was only shifted back recently. But enough about positions at universities – will you take some tea?"

"I fear I will feel some guilt if I did so."

"Please, do not."

"Either way, I must refuse."

Sarmë looked at him closely. "I know you must feel awkward and somewhat strained because of the past. Please know you are welcome at this school, at the least. The library is open to both students and the public."

"Is it, now?" said Makalaurë, feeling a rush of warm gratefulness towards the dean. "It was not so in my time here."

"Things have changed a bit." Sarmë glanced back towards his study. "If you will excuse me, I must finish some work."

"Of course. And thank you."

They parted. Makalaurë had initially intended to go straight home, but now he felt as if he would like a look at the old library. Tucking his hair behind his ears, he made his way through the corridors till he reached a high archway, and beyond that, a dull red door with silver vases on tables on either side. He pushed open the door and a smell of ink, old paper and leather enveloped him. He breathed deep, smiling slightly as he looked round.

The library had a double floor, with broad tables and chairs made of oak. Stained glass windows let in coloured light, unlit lamps hung on poles, and candelabras rested on tables. The white floors were covered with soft carpets, stained with age and dirt. The bookshelves were fuller than ever, stuffed with thick volumes that were hard to even look at. A bunch of students were studying near an unlit hearth, their faces solemn and somewhat haughty. They took no notice of a dark stranger nosing about the place.

At length he reached a shelf with books of poetry and lore, and he stopped to read the titles. He ran his gaze across the volumes, one by one. _Fuion, Ainulindalë, The Lay of Leithian, Aldudénië…_

He knew that book. Carefully, he picked it out of its place and perused the index. Yes, he knew this so well. He still recognised the style, even after so many years.

"Oh, you do remember me."

Startled, Makalaurë turned round, nearly dropping the book, and was met with a tall, fine-featured elf with stiff yellow hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He wore a leather jerkin over his long-sleeved tunic, and an indifferent expression, though Makalaurë could easily see through it to find hurt and annoyance.

"Elemmírë!"

"Ah, so your memory has not withered away like the rest of you."

"A bitter way to start a conversation."

"Don't lecture me about bitterness, Makalaurë."

"You can't do without lectures, Elemmírë. You'd run wild wearing only fig-leaves for dignity, otherwise." Though his words were sharp and exaggerated, he felt old affection for his friend stir in his mind, and found he could not truly be angry with him.

Elemmírë's eyes darkened. "You are in no position to criticise anyone's faults."

Makalaurë actually smiled. "No," he said, "I am not. How wonderful it is to see you again."

"Is it?"

"Truly."

An indignant cough from one of the students broke their conversation; they had been talking aloud. Neither of the two musicians seemed to care; both knew the arrogance of those who studied at the university. Makalaurë gazed at his friend for a moment, before advancing towards a pair of closed double-doors set with brass handles; he recalled that they led to the street. He stopped when he saw they were locked with iron chains. Elemmírë pressed his lips together somewhat grimly. "They have shut those permanently. People used to try and sneak in through here."

Wordlessly, they went out through the other doors, and stood facing each other in the hallway. Elemmírë cast his gaze to his feet and said, "What are you going to do now?"

"I will go home and reminisce about happier days."

There was a pause. "You are not joining back here, then?" came the reluctant and slightly surly reply.

Makalaurë's lips quirked. "Do you want me to?" he asked innocently.

"I was asking about _you_, Makalaurë."

"Then," he returned, "I have no idea. I will have to find work at some point, but few would be willing to employ me. I'd feel lucky if I found work as a basket-weaver." He sighed and turned his eye towards a portrait of Rúmil that was hanging near a window. "I will leave now," he said. "If you would not mind, you could come and meet me some time."

Elemmírë pursed his lips and said, "We shall see."

"I bid you farewell, then."

"Hold on!"

"What is it?"

"Well – if you really want to, I can ask Sarmë about employing you here as a teacher or something. Perhaps you could help out with – "

Makalaurë interrupted: "Thank you, dear. I will see. In fact, perhaps I will ask Sarmë myself soon."

Elemmírë cleared his throat, flushing slightly. "Tell me what he says, then. And good luck."

"I will. And thank you."

* * *

For the next few days Makalaurë pondered over going back to the university. Perhaps he would not know what to say, or how students and other tutors would treat him. Then again, he would have Elemmírë, and Sarmë besides. He sighed and gazed at his harp, which he was holding in his hands thoughtfully. It gleamed in the pale sunlight, tempting him back into the demanding yet comforting life of a bard.

He approached Sarmë a fortnight later, having made his decision. They sat in the dean's study, discussing the matter. It was a rectangular room with a fine wooden desk and two cushioned chairs, and deep, latticed windows with cream curtains trimmed with gold. A shelf stood on the one end of the room, filled with books and papers and small china sculptures. A tray with two cups of steaming tea lay between the two elves.

Sarmë was in fact amiable and kind-hearted; he was more like his daughter than Makalaurë had earlier thought he was. He spoke with small gestures of the hand and little shrugs of the shoulder, shaking his head for no apparent reason. It was a strange but charming manner, and Makalaurë found himself taking a liking towards the dean.

Sarmë asked Makalaurë if he could give a demonstration of his musical skills. "I hope you do not take this as an offence," he said. "But we must observe custom." From a drawer in his desk he handed Makalaurë a long bamboo flute strung with white string. Makalaurë took it and said, "Of course." He put the instrument to his lips and played a very old, sweet song from the days when Valinor was still alight with the Two Trees and when the king Finwë was not yet married. When he was done Sarmë nodded his approval with raised brows and said, "Your reputation as a bard is well earned."

They concluded that Makalaurë would work as a substitute teacher and help Elemmírë with the management of the flautists. "People may protest you working as a full-time tutor," said Sarmë as he accompanied Makalaurë out the door. "We can avoid that until things have settled down a bit. But I will talk to some of the other tutors and let them know of my decision. Of course, I will have to get their approval of you as well, else things may get out of hand."

"I understand," Makalaurë said solemnly. "I thank you."

When after a few days he was asked to play for a set of the best instructors in the school, he managed to impress even the most surly and sceptical of them, and even earned a few fast acquaintances. Elemmírë kept his face straight, but the pride in his clear blue eyes was unmistakable. The next day he showed up at Makalaurë's house with a bottle of wine in his hands and the ghost of a smile on his face. "I suppose congratulations are in order," he said at his friend's surprised expression.

They sat in the kitchen, the heavy afternoon light warm on their faces, sipping the wine and taking bites of the bread and cheese that Makalaurë had laid out on the table. They were silent for a while; Elemmírë kept his eyes on the tiled floor, as if studying the mundane black-and-white pattern. At length Makalaurë said, "I know you are angry with me. I do not blame you."

Elemmírë shook his head. "I am not angry with you," he murmured, swirling the wine in his cup. "I am angry with the past."

Makalaurë averted his eyes.

"So much happened," the Vanya continued. "I never could have imagined how many friends I would lose, or how many of them would die with the grief of loss. I am not even angry with you father, though I suppose I should be. I just cannot bring myself to blame one person."

"You are right in that," said Makalaurë.

"At first I blamed your father. Then I blamed the Lady Míriel, and then her husband the king – and then I realised I was just going around in circles." He sighed in a slightly aggravated manner, pressing his brow with a long hand. He clutched his cup. "And you – you were my closest friend, and yet you left without seeing me first or even sending a letter. The last I heard of you before you departed was from hearsay and rumours."

"I suppose it would be inappropriate to ask you to forgive me."

"I wouldn't if you asked me to," came the suddenly cool reply, "though I love you dearly and will support you."

Makalaurë cracked a sad smile. "I could not ask for more."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Makalaurë's schedule kept him busy without bringing with it the stress that often accompanies professional work. He would wake in the morning to birdsong and sunlight, and would wash and dress himself before walking to the university, a satchel slung across his shoulders. Often he would smile at the sight of the ancient structure with its towers of iridescent marble and its pinnacles of burnished gold. Dark red roses straggled the high walls, peeping in at the panelled windows and obscuring locked doors. The buildings would gleam in the morning light, and Makalaurë would remember the days when he was able to walk in feeling confident and proud of his talent.

Once inside he would either work with Elemmírë or instruct a few classes. Initially the students' eyes grew wide when they saw him – whether out of horror or admiration, he did not know – but soon they got used to him, and even bloomed under his skillful hand and watchful eye. He was a patient teacher, and would guide their hands across the holes of their flutes and listen with close attention to any qualms they had.

Sometimes, often in the early afternoon, he would catch sight of Seldárë, whom he learned was not a very apt student. Their eyes would meet, and at times they would smile at each other, but they rarely talked save when they needed to ask for something.

Life went on, and Makalaurë soon got used to his work and the people around him. It distracted him from the past, and also from the present. As long as he was busy, he did not need to think about his wife or his lonely mother (even though he wrote to her frequently) or the foster-son he was refusing to see.

One day Sarmë called Makalaurë into his study, and stood by the windows, gazing at him thoughtfully. "May I ask you a favour?" he asked, his blue eyes a little doubtful.

"Of course," replied Makalaurë, slightly puzzled at the dean's hesitant tone.

Sarmë sighed, bowing his head, and said, "Would you be my daughter's private instructor in music?"

"Private instructor?" asked Makalaurë. "Whatever for? I have heard that she is perhaps not the best student in the school, but I should think there is no reason to worry about that. She is still young."

"I know, Makalaurë," said Sarmë sharply, revealing an impatience Makalaurë had not seen before in the younger elf. "But I am the dean and she is my child; people find it odd and I daresay embarrassing when they find she is a mediocre student."

Makalaurë said, "Perhaps her talent lies in another field."

"Perhaps," came the reply. "Do not argue with me, Makalaurë. Say whether you will take the job or not. You will be paid extra for it, in case you were wondering."

"I was not. I will take the work, either way. I haven't much else to do."

Sarmë visibly relaxed, his sordid mood dissipating with this answer. "Very good. Thank you. You can start instructing her tomorrow evening, around the fifth hour."

* * *

Sarmë's house was on the main road by the marketplace, with a painted red door, a double floor and panelled windows that mostly faced east. When Makalaurë rang the doorbell he was met with a small, slender woman wearing a deep green surcoat over a long-sleeved white shift. Her black hair was elaborately knotted at the back of her head and strung with white flowers, which gave off a rich, heady scent. She bore a striking resemblance to Seldárë. She blinked for a moment, and then smiled uncertainly. "Makalaurë? Do come in."

He was ushered inside and made to sit at the dining table. The lady had introduced herself as Rossárë, and was just serving him some herbal tea when Sarmë came into the room, holding his daughter's hand. "Makalaurë," he said amiably, "welcome. You have met my wife, Rossárë?"

They engaged in polite conversation for a while, and then Sarmë cleared his throat and said that the lesson ought to start. He and his wife exited the room, and Makalaurë was left alone with the girl, who stood staring at her feet. Makalaurë smiled at her and said, "Come, sit at the table. Have you got your flute and your lyre?"

She nodded and produced the instruments from a cloth bag she had in her hand. The instruments were almost as big as she was, and Makalaurë had to suppress a smile at the drollness of the sight. "Now," he said when everything was in order, "I need first to know how good you really are. Take your flute and play me a tune. Any tune." He sat back with his arms folded as she fumbled to place the flute at her lips, and pressed his lips together when she started to play. Her father was right; she was almost embarrassingly bad. When she was done, she looked at him, crimson to the ears. "That was terrible, was it not?"

"A little practice and you will be fine," he said. He thought for a moment, and eventually said, "Seldárë, do you read much?"

"What's that got to do with anything? No, I don't."

Makalaurë made an indignant sound. "Do your parents read, then? Your mother does? Well, I want you to do something. Your playing is bad because your mind knows neither poetry nor patience." He rose and went to a bookshelf near a window, and scanned the books. Seldárë watched him with curious eyes as he pulled out three volumes and came back to the table. He set the books down and said, "I want you to read these books." He handed one to her and she eyed it dubiously. It was a collection of poetry by Rúmil. "I heard that only adults read Rúmil," she said.

"Whoever told you that is a fool," he replied firmly. "This is relatively simple poetry, understood by anyone who has a mind for it. This other book is also one of poetry, and the third one of lore. None are particularly heavy. Now, you will finish all these before two months are done."

"Two months?" she cried. "I cannot do that."

Makalaurë arched an eyebrow dryly. "You can, and you will. I do not know who your tutors are, but so long as I am your instructor, you will listen to me. Now, let us hear how you are with that harp."

Seldárë turned out to be a poor musician on the whole, and Makalaurë had to resist the urge to cluck his tongue. By the end of the lesson Seldárë was tired of Makalaurë's pedantic observations, and Makalaurë was fed up of her mistakes. Still, he did not show it; a good teacher would not discourage his student.


	14. Chapter 17

**Chapter Fourteen**

**"**One more time," said Makalaurë wearily, striving not to pinch the bridge of his nose. His lessons with Seldárë had gone on for nearly three months, and while there had been some improvement, it was not enough to satisfy either himself or Sarmë.

Seldárë puckered her brow, miserable, and plucked the strings of her harp with a sigh. She was, if possible, more annoyed than Makalaurë was. She had read the books he had assigned her, finding them a dreadful bore and moreover seeing no difference in her playing. "I am tired," she groaned, making a face. It was late evening; the lesson had gone on for a long time, and the shadows had lengthened in the corners of the room.

Makalaurë nodded, rubbing his eyes. He felt relieved that the lesson was done for the day, and was looking forward to a hot meal of pottage and buttered bread at home. He said, "I will see you the day after," and began to gather up his book and his papers. As he reached the door Seldárë said, "You forgot your flute." She came over and handed it to him. Makalaurë put it in his satchel and gazed at her thoughtfully. The child really looked pitiful, with grey circles under her large eyes and her hair slipping out of her plait.

"Seldárë," he said after a moment, "perhaps it is not my place to ask, but do you really want to be a musician?"

"I do," she said. "It makes Father happy."

"I am not talking about your father. I am talking about you." He crouched down by her and she averted her eyes. "Because, no matter how many personal tutors you have, if you do not wish to play, you will not get better." He regretted those words when he saw tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "It is really not that much of an ordeal," he added quickly.

She stuck the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I will never make Father proud."

Makalaurë clucked his tongue. "Forget about making him proud. Do what makes you happy." He leaned back slightly on his haunches and sighed. "I went against my father's wishes in becoming a musician," he said, "but I never regretted the decision, and my parents grew proud of me either way." _Only for so long_, he added to himself ruefully. A thought struck him, suddenly, making him chew his lower lip.

"Seldárë," he said carefully, "do you know who I am?"

She looked at him warily, as if discerning if this was a trick. "My tutor," she said slowly. "And your name is Makalaurë."

There was a silence. Makalaurë suddenly felt the cool breeze blowing through the windows more keenly than before. Sarmë had not informed her, then. He opened his mouth, about to reveal his identity, but then balked. This was not the right time. Sarmë might have had a reason for hiding who he really was. Makalaurë decided he would have to ask Sarmë about this at some point, and rose to his feet.

"All right," he said. "Good evening, Seldárë." He tucked his things under his arm and left. When he reached his house he pondered what the girl would do once she grew older and realised who used to teach her music. He was so engrossed in this thoughts he neglected the stew over the fire, and ended up sitting down to only bread and cheese.

* * *

The dreary weather the next day did not stop Failawendë from taking a stroll in the city, a weather-stained cloak wrapped around her shoulders. The sky was overcast and grey, and threatened to rain. She stopped when she neared the university, and sat down on a bench under a sparse tree on the boulevard. Pulling at her cloak, she gazed at the towering structure, lips pursed. She did not move as a drop of water fell upon her cheek and dripped from her chin.

When someone came and stood by her, she did not look up.

"Are you here to catch sight of Makalaurë?"

She started and finally turned her eye upon the person. "Why, Elemmírë!" she said, furrowing her brow. "I am not."

Elemmírë' had been away to the Library of Tirion, not far away from the university, to study some books that could not be found at the school. His look softened and he said, "You are rather easy to read, you know. Makalaurë may be a fool when it comes to you, but I am not." He paused, curling his fist against his trousers. "I know you love him."

She closed her eyes. "Be off," she said quietly. "I do not wish to speak."

"If you care for him," he continued, "you should not hurt him like this. You are being hard on yourself, too. Nerdanel has – "

"I am not Nerdanel, Elemmírë," she replied sharply. The sky rumbled loudly as if to accentuate her words.

Elemmírë sighed. "I will leave, then." He turned his heel and took a few steps, and stopped abruptly. "I need to ask you something."

She was silent.

"If something were to happen to Makalaurë – something harsh and unjust – would you help him?"

When she did not reply, he rubbed an eye with a fist and went on his way. Once inside, now a little wet due to the rain that had started to pour, he nearly collided with Makalaurë, who was carrying a stack of papers to one of the lecture halls. "Why, Elemmírë," he said breathlessly, smiling. "I have not seen you in days. Where have you been?"

"I have been busy, my dear. That is all."

"Would you like to have tea with me? I just need to put these papers away."

They sat in the large but sparsely furnished dining room, sipping tea and taking bites of buttered scones, and talked at length. "My lessons with Seldárë have not been very eventful," said Makalaurë, arching an eyebrow. "I've a feeling she doesn't like music, but she insists that she wants to play."

"It is not easy being the child of a dean."

"No," returned Makalaurë. He suddenly grinned. "It is even harder to be the child of a prodigy." The grin turned a bit sour, and he quickly wiped it off his face. Elemmírë did not fail to notice, and politely avoided the topic. Instead he said, "Sarmë is a good man. Strict, perhaps, but not unreasonably so, and well brought up. He is a good choice for a dean."

"My own years here were rather short."

"Two centuries is hardly short."

"For an elf, it is."

They laughed, and refilled their cups, and chatted until they realised they were both late for lessons. Elemmírë jumped up and cursed. "Is there no time at all for a teacher?" he said.

"No," replied Makalaurë simply, making his friend burst into a fit of chuckles again. He sighed thoughtfully when his eyes suddenly fell upon a vase of peonies upon a table by a window. "Those were Faila's favourite flowers," he murmured softly, his eyes growing dark with long memories.

Elemmírë frowned, and did not reply. After packing their things they went to their lessons, and did not talk the rest of the day.


	15. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Had anyone seen Elemmírë that evening, they would have thought him an unusual sight. He was jittery, almost nervous, toying with his quill, then sitting down with a book, only to put it back on the shelf and pick up another. Up till now he had felt things had not been going very well; now he felt they were not going well at all. A sense of foreboding was growing in his heart. It was too quiet. It had been months since Makalaurë had come back, and nothing had happened. Surely people were unhappy with his presence? But they had done nothing.

_This is merely the calm before a storm. _The words came automatically to his head. His room suddenly seemed too silent for his liking.

_Where is Mairë? I need to talk to her about the upcoming festival. _He didn't really, but he wanted an excuse to get out of his room and be with someone. Giving his knees a swift pat as resolution he whisked out of the door and into the corridor. His steps were not light, for he was anxious. About what, he did not know. He stopped at the stairs that led to the dormitories and placed his hands on the balustrade.

"They should not be here," he thought as he saw a few elves – whom he recognized as parents of some of the students – scattered on the ground floor and up ahead. Two were in front of him, and the other two downstairs. He walked up to the ones ahead and said, "I was not aware of any function or meeting with the parents. I am sorry if you were misinformed."

"We were not misinformed," said one of them, narrowing his eyes in a poisonous fashion.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Elemmírë, furrowing his brow.

"That Kinslayer is here, among our _children_?" one spat, curling his fists. Elemmírë fought the urge to yank his hair and scream.

"He is not among your children, Sir. He is with the manager or me at nearly all times. After that he goes home. He is harmless, that I assure you."

"_Harmless_? He killed his own kin!" The man shook his hands in Elemmírë's face, as if trying to wave some sense into him.

"That was millennia ago!" Elemmírë shouted, losing all sense of control. He heaved himself upright, his arms stiff by his sides. "When will you people let go of your grudges? The King permits him to work here, as do the Valar. Judgement is not yours."

"The Valar are here for our sake, and we say this man cannot be here! I always thought you were a responsible – and moreover honourable – man, Elemmírë, but you have proven to be reckless."

"If this is being reckless, Sir, then I would rather be reckless than live up to your expectations of honour."

The Elf sucked in his breath, breathing hard. Elemmírë swept his gaze across all the others; the ones on the ground had made their way up the stairs by now.

"I want you all to leave this instant," he said in a low voice. "If you have such a problem, take it up with the Valar."

* * *

Makalaurë was forced roughly to his knees before the High King, who rose from his seat and looked incredulously at the four men. There was only one seat in the room – the throne – and it indicated clearly that only one person could sit there. Findaráto was there too, much to Makalaurë's discomfort. The prince was hovering by his father's throne, one hand on the marble arm. He never spoke, but the faintly disdainful countenance said all that was needed.

Arafinwë glanced at each of the elves in turn. "Explain one by one what happened," he said. "If you lie, you will pay dearly. Begin," he said, turning to one of the strangers, who shrugged.

"I do not know what happened between the two. This man – Lornavor – asked for help, and I saw…" He looked at Makalaurë as if he were an animal he did not know the name of. "I saw him holding up a stone in a threatening manner. I only escorted Lornavor here with my friend."

"What is your tale?" asked the King to the other elf. He recited the same story, not flinching despite the weight of Arafinwë's stare.

The King nodded. "Lornavor?" he asked, inclining his head slightly. The Teler bowed low, making sure his sycophancy would work, before straightening up and saying:

"Lord, I was walking down the street. I saw Kanafinwë, and, well, told him what I thought of him. He got up and aimed a stone at me."

"Were you being obscene?" asked Arafinwë.

"No, my Lord."

"Were you insulting?"

"I will not lie. Yes, I was. But I imposed no physical harm, and by right, he cannot threaten me physically for that, with or without the ban of the Valar. More over, I heard another man accusing him of molesting his daughter."

Findaráto's eyes peeled open, and he turned his head sharply to Makalaurë.

"Makalaurë," said the King. "Is this true?"

"It is true, Lord, but if you would hear my full story, perhaps you would show me pity."

"That is hard to believe. But talk."

"The girl I was with – she is dear to me in the way your son is dear to you…"

"Stop the emotional chat and get to the point!" said Lornavor sharply.

"Silence!" cried Arafinwë. His voice was like the rumbling of rocks when raised. "No one speaks till I tell them to." Lornavor bowed again and sealed his lips. Makalaurë continued his tale.

"This girl loves her father more than anyone. He is the manager of the Tirion music school; but she was terrible with music. She asked me if I could teach her to play and sing. She also asked me to keep it a secret, so she could surprise her father during the exams, which happen to take place tomorrow. It was unwise to not tell the man, because now he thinks that I am a liar and a cheat, and have moreover spoiled his girl. I feel remorse, because he was kind to me. But I never touched his daughter."

"And the rest? What about the stone incident?"

"I was caught carrying this girl today by her father, since she asked me to. Naturally, he thought that was immoral, and chided me. He implied he would remove me from his service. After working so hard these past months, a shock like that can leave one cold. I had just sat down on the steps when Lornavor started mouthing insults at me. I got up, but he followed me as I walked. Growing tired of his incessant chattering, I picked up a stone, never intending to hurl it, but he acted quicker than I thought, and called these two men."

"Were there any other witnesses?"

"None, Lord."

"And how am I supposed to believe that you did not molest this girl?"

"You may ask her."

"You might have blackmailed her."

"I assure you he never did," said a voice from the door. All eyes turned to a slender, dark elleth standing with her arms folded demurely in front of her navel. Despite her simple white dress and modest blue shawl, she looked proud and stately. "Lord Arafinwë. You know me by my books, and we have moreover talked together." Her voice carried well over the marble floor that stretched in brown and white across the hall. "You know also that I have no connections with Makalaurë anymore, and so I could not possibly be a part of all this. But I saw what happened, and I have also seen Makalaurë with this girl. He would not harm her if his life depended on it."

"And why do you say that, Failawendë?" asked the King. Makalaurë was by now very confused. His wife suddenly knew Arafinwë? Perhaps now his brothers would come back to life, too.

"I have seen these two in the park, for I go there often. The girl seems completely at her ease with him. She generally climbs trees or stares at birds while he reads sitting on a bench. Today, I saw them in front of the library, and the girl indeed raised her arms to be held. If anything, Makalaurë protested at first, but them submitted to her will. Not five minutes later a man came and took the girl from him. I assume that was her father."

Arafinwë stroked his chin. "This does change matters. But understand this, Makalaurë. You may not threaten any man for any reason whatsoever. This whole report will be sent to the Elder King in writing, after I have spoken to the manager. The rest lies with the Valar.

You are dismissed, all of you. But I might send a messenger to ask any of you back at any time, so be prepared for that."

Lornavor said nothing, but cast Faelwen a filthy look as soon as they all were out of the palace. "You have no connections with this Kinslayer, you say; why then do you act as his shield?"

"I answer only to those I wish to," she replied coldly. Makalaurë bit down hard on his lip. He wanted to get her away from this man, but she would not listen to him.

Once the other three had departed, Faelwen looked sharply at Makalaurë. "Make no mistake, Kanafinwë. I did what I judged to be right, nothing more. My heart does not beat for you only, as it once used to."

Makalaurë cast her a weary look, and suddenly he appeared far older than he was, as if he were a mortal. "I shall not raise my hopes to such heights. It is enough that I have seen you, and had you speak for my protection. That I did not expect. At least I know now that you do not despise me unconditionally."

"Unconditionally or no, despise you I do."

Makalaurë drew a sharp breath, but his expression was more pained than annoyed. His brow was creased like ruffled sheets. "Why must you use such stinging words with me? Have I not tried to ask your forgiveness and make amends for my deeds? Have I ever spoken an unkind word to you, aside from that one time when I had lost my mind? And yet…" He searched for the words, flicking his eyes across the damp ground. "And yet I manage to hold affections for you," he said quietly, meeting her eyes. "For I must also make you understand something. I will never hate you, whatever you say or do to me. If you chide me, I will be grateful that I have heard your voice. If you strike me, I will relish your touch. And that is one thing you can do nothing about."

Faelwen stared at him with a tight jaw. For a moment he thought she might weep, but she shook her head, pursing her lips, and said, "You talk too much." Then she turned her heel and left. Makalaurë watched her form gradually fade away into the faint mist, and then a slight smile tugged at one corner of his lips.

_You talk too much, minstrel. _

She would say that nearly every day to him when they were younger.

* * *

The clouds dissipated the next day, revealing a clear blue sky like watery paint. It was a little cool thanks to the rain the day before, and Makalaurë shivered slightly in his thin tunic as he walked with his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets to the music school. He wondered what Sarmë would say to him when he saw him. It would not matter though, if he told him to get out and gave him a sound kick to his backside. He had provided Makalaurë with a permanent source for happiness, and for that, Makalaurë was ready for anything. He drew a breath to steady himself before raising a hand to open the door, but before he could touch the handle it was yanked open by a very pale looking Yanwë. His hair was still undone, and his socks were actually mismatched. That was odd, for a person who desperately wanted to impress his seniors.

"Good day, Yanwë. May I enter?"

Yanwë cocked his head to one side, as if he couldn't understand something. "Elemmírë will not receive you. Go home."

"I need to talk to him, and Sarmë. It will only be an hour or so."

"You can see Sarmë, but abandon any intention to talk with Mírë."

"Why? What has happened?"

"Didn't you know?"

"I cannot understand you."

Yanwë sighed deeply. "It is sad then, how you have no idea."

Makalaurë still hovered by the door. "At least let me come in. I will see Sarmë first, and then go to Elemmírë. I cannot see why he won't talk to me."

"That he most certainly will not," replied Yanwë, but stepped aside to let him in. Makalaurë furrowed his brow as he cast his acquaintance a quizzical glance. He strode over to Sarmë's office. When he knocked, no one replied.

"He is busy at the moment," said a maid who was dusting a window. "But he should be back in a half hour."

"Ah, thank you." _Perhaps I had better see Mírë now. _He changed the direction he was facing and went through the myriad of corridors before coming to his friend's door. There was some muttering inside, but it was for the most part a woman's voice. Makalaurë could not hear a trace of Elemmírë's. He knocked tentatively.

"May I come in?"

"Who is it?"

"Makalaurë."

More muttering, more frantic now.

"Is something amiss?" called Makalaurë, pressing his ear against the door. He nearly lost his balance as it was suddenly pulled open by an Elf dressed in white robes. The air that flew out of the room smelled strangely antiseptic and herbal. The Elf nodded curtly at Makalaurë and then left, and was followed by another Elf, similarly clad. Makalaurë pushed back the door, anxiety clouding his mind.

The bed in the corner was surrounded by bandages and little clay pots and bowls filled with steaming water. Some shoes were shoved underneath it. Mairë was sitting on a stool beside the bed, hunched over. She looked as if she had not changed her clothes since the day before, and her hair was in a tangle. She appeared not to notice Makalaurë. On the bed lay a deathly pale person, bandages wound tightly across his chest and around his brow. His golden hair was tied into a sloppy knot, and stuck to his neck. A light blue sheet lay tumbled at his bare feet. Makalaurë started, his eyebrows shooting up and his jaw slackening.

"Elemmírë!"

* * *

**Failawendë - Faelwen**

**Findaráto - Finrod**

**Arafinwë - Finarfin**


	16. Chapter 19

**A/N: I apologize for the delay, but my muse decided to say, "So long, sucker. If you need me, I shall be in Russia." Yeah. Well. I wrote most of this without her help, and she only came back today night, looking like she'd been through a hurricane (serves her right). **

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Nineteen**

Silence swelled in the room and threatened to steal Makalaurë's breath. The curtains were drawn, and glowed red while blocking the sunlight. The only sound was of Elemmírë's shallow breathing, and the occasional ruffle of Mairë's dress. After a minute or so, Makalaurë walked anxiously towards the bed. Upon closer inspection, Elemmírë's skin was almost white. The Noldo very gently brushed back a strand of stubborn yellow hair from his friend's forehead.

"What happened, Mairë?" he asked, his voice wavering.

Mairë pursed her lips and shook her head.

"Tell me," Makalaurë pleaded. "I must know, even though I feel it was because of me."

Mairë nodded slightly, and then began her tale in a broken and uneven voice. Elemmírë had an argument with some parents. After a while he got agitated and told them to leave, which only made them angrier. They started crowding him, talking all at once, and Elemmírë in distress had stepped back towards the edge of the stair, only to lose his balance and come tumbling down, fracturing his back and badly wounding his forehead.

"It needed fifteen stitches," she said, as if that would help.

"But I do not see where I come in."

Mairë hesitated. "They wanted you to leave. Elemmírë refused."

Makalaurë sat down at the edge of the bed and took his friend's hand. It was cold. Not like death, but close enough. "Will he heal?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, but only after a month or so. The wounds were grievous."

Gently stroking Elemmírë's fingers, Makalaurë mused aloud. "He was my best friend."

"He still is," said Mairë sharply. Makalaurë's face seemed to soften.

"Yes. Yes, he is. I am sorry. I do not know what I am doing, what I am saying, why I am here. I truly am a nuisance. Everywhere I go I cause misery." _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. _Was the ban still on him? Or was this merely because of his stupidity?

Mairë seemed to read his thoughts like an open book. "He loves you," she said. "You do not have to feel guilt. He could have simply given you a boot to your backside, and that would have been the end of it. But he didn't. He is not like that."

"I know. Still, my heart cannot help but wonder."

"Is it your heart, Makalaurë, or your head?"

Makalaurë closed his eyes. "I do not know."

They sat in silence for a while. Suddenly Elemmírë stirred and groaned. He tried to lift his head, but it felt like lead. Then he tried to speak, but his mouth was parched and his chest hurt too much. Mairë immediately soaked a cloth in a bowl of water that was by the bed and placed it to his lips. He spluttered, and then tried to mumble something.

"What's that?"

"Káno," he managed to squeeze out. They understood. Mairë reluctantly pressed his hand in hers and left, giving one last look at Makalaurë, who chewed his lip. He turned to Elemmírë after Mairë had shut the door.

"Mírë, before you speak, know that I am sorry. Language fails. I should have never accepted the work. It is my fault that you are in this state. It seems as if I am still doomed, along with everyone I make contact with."

Elemmírë shook his head as vigorously as he could, which was not very much. "No," he wheezed.

"Mírë. Do not strain yourself. I am leaving today, and not only because of this. You must understand, Mírë. Do you not?"

Elemmírë gave him a weary glare, clearly indicating he did not. Makalaurë lost his patience.

"You cannot say that, Elemmírë. Who knows who will be the next victim? My mother? Sarmë? Seldárë?" As he said the last name the full horror of what was happening came down upon him like a weight of bricks. How could he let that happen? That innocent child, with no idea of who he was or what he had done? Even if she were not harmed, if he continued his companionship with her, she would some day ask who he really was. And what would he say then? That he was Kanafinwë, son of Fëanáro: the traitor and the son of a traitor?

Elemmírë still gave one stubborn shake of the head. Makalaurë sighed.

"I will take this up with Sarmë. It's over, Mírë. I am leaving. I am sorry for what I put you through." He got up, feeling more than a little guilty. "Do you want some water?" he asked. Elemmírë merely scowled as best as he could, only managing to look rather constipated. Despite himself, Makalaurë chuckled.

"I will see you again, friend, even though I might not work by your side." He tucked Elemmírë up for good measure before exiting the room. Mairë was hovering outside, looking anxious as a droopy hound.

"He'll be all right," said Makalaurë, giving her an approving nod. She smiled slightly.

"I know."

* * *

Makalaurë and Sarmë both tried to open the study door at once, so both lost their balance when it finally swung open.

"Makalaurë," greeted Sarmë, straightening himself. He was not smiling, but he wasn't scowling either, which was undeniably good. In fact, his eyes held a sort of wary thankfulness. "Sit down." He waited for the Noldo to be seated before sitting down himself. He tapped his fingers on the table for a while, not looking at him. Suddenly, he drew himself up, startling Makalaurë.

"So," he said awkwardly. "You've been giving my daughter music lessons, eh?"

Makalaurë blinked twice and furrowed his brow. His look clearly said: "Of course I was teaching your daughter. That's why you nearly blew my head off, isn't it?"

"Well," continued the manager. "She's improved. Quite a bit. Though I daresay she's gotten a swollen head now, so either way I'm blaming you."

"What are you trying to say? Will you please be clear, because I can't understand you."

"I'm saying I want you to stay."

Makalaurë sighed and drew his hand over his brow. This was not what he had wanted. He had wanted to get out of this place. "Why?"

"If you can't guess, you're a buffoon." Sarmë remembered quite clearly the hubbub after the exam that morning. He had anxiously been waiting for his daughter's turn, desperately wishing she would not muck it up, or offend anyone. The rest had been a surprise indeed. Little Seldárë had scrambled eagerly onto the stage, taken a deep breath, and sung with a smooth voice better than most other students. When she stopped, the entire class gathered round her.

"Who is your secret tutor, Seldárë?" her classmates asked. And Seldárë smiled smugly.

"You wouldn't know. He is a genius and no less."

Of course Sarmë mentioned none of this. He only said, "I am grateful that you taught her. It did her good." And poor Makalaurë was so confused he only gaped, not even able to fidget.

"Of course, I am still angry with you for not informing me about the whole affair, but perhaps I can forgive you. My daughter seems to like you enough."

Makalaurë pressed his lips in a thin line, earning a cocked eyebrow from Sarmë. "As much as I appreciate your offer, I must decline."

"What?" asked Sarmë, nearly up from his seat I surprise. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"I would be, Sarmë, but I am a threat to the students and tutors alike here. Do you not know what happened to Elemmírë? No, let me finish," he added hastily when Sarmë began to protest. "He is my dearest friend. I cannot stand the thought of him or anyone else getting injured or in trouble because of me." He _nearly _added, 'especially your daughter', but that would probably get his head lopped off. "I am, at the end of the day, an Exile. I should have stayed in Middle-earth. I had longed to return to Valinor, but I never knew the havoc I would cause; neither did I understand the enormity of the pain I already had caused. Seeing my mother after all these years – I realized what I had become. I cannot hope to disappoint people further. And," he added as an afterthought, "should I continue to be Seldárë's tutor, she will at some point want to know who I am. And I will have no answer." His voice had dropped dramatically, so it was barely coherent.

Sarmë sighed deeply. "Who knows Seldárë better, Makalaurë? You, or her own father? She is a very forgiving sort. Of course, she will sulk for a few days, but in the end she'll forgive you."

"I am not wanted here," said Makalaurë, in no mood to argue further. Apparently, neither was Sarmë.

"You are not _wanted _anywhere, Makalaurë, aside from those places where you have people who cherish you. I suppose you understand that. Well, in that case you had better cut off communication with absolutely everyone, eh?"

Makalaurë had no reply to that. He was almost ashamed to admit it, but after being alone for millennia it was a pleasure to see people again, even if they did nothing but hate him. And what was he to them, aside from a kinslayer and a former prince? He would avoid them contentedly, as long as they didn't try to harass him…like the day before.

He silently cursed himself for picking up that stone. What was he thinking? The Valar were merciful, but they were strict. As far as he knew, the report had already gone. Unless…

"Sarmë," he said, "did you get a letter from the King yesterday?" Surely Arafinwë would have to ask Sarmë's permission before bluntly stating that Makalaurë had molested his manager's daughter.

Sarmë peered at him with a puckered brow. "Of course not. Why would I? I know I was threatening to send a letter to _him_, but I didn't, as you can guess."

Makalaurë pursed his lips. This was not like Arafinwë at all. Usually, if he said he would so something, he'd do it. When he turned back from the hosts after Alqualondë, almost everyone had been surprised, aside from Fëanáro.

"Just like a son of Indis to go back on his word," he had sneered.

"Either way," said Sarmë, choosing to ignore Makalaurë's strange behaviour. "You can leave right now for today, but I expect you here at nine o' clock tomorrow."

"No, wait," said Makalaurë, snapping to attention. "I can't just…"

"Do not argue, Makalaurë. I am giving you a chance to integrate yourself into society again. Are you not grateful?"

The truth was yes. The lie was no. Makalaurë settled for something in between. "I don't know."

"Either way, you had better pull up your leggings. There is a performance here for the festival of _Yávië_ two months hence. I would like you to play. Aren't you happy?"

Happy? He had just been told that more of his friends would get hurt, and on top of that that people would be throwing rotten fruits and dirty shoes at him. He felt felicitous, to be sure. "I will not perform."

"You will, and that's a fact. One performance, Makalaurë, that's all I ask. If you want to know, Seldárë wants you to play."

Makalaurë dropped his head in his hands. This just kept getting better and better.

"You don't have to play an instrument – just instruct the musicians. Play any song that comes to your mind. I give you that freedom. Make sure it's good, though; we're planning to invite a lot of people."

"You cannot do this to me."

"Actually, being your manager, I can. The dance will be held in the main hall of this school, on the 20th. I'll be expecting you." He paused. "You can invite whomever you wish. Personally, if you want. I can give you the cards."

The first words that came to Makalaurë's tongue were rather cutting, and he had to swallow hard to get rid of them. An instant later, he did not regret it. He nodded. "Well then. May I have one of those cards today?"

Sarmë raised an eyebrow. "Sudden change of mind? Well, why not." He shifted out of his seat and went to a drawer, from which he drew a roll of white parchment wrapped in red ribbon. He handed it to Makalaurë, who was in deep thought.

"Whom will you give it to?"

Makalaurë looked up. "A close friend," he replied.

As soon as Makalaurë left, a messenger came to Sarmë. "From the King Arafinwë," he said, inclining his head and handing the manager a letter.

* * *

The next day, after sundown, Makalaurë strode down the white streets, his fingers anxiously clutching the parchment. What would he say? What would he do? Was he overreacting? Probably. But probably did not mean definitely, and Makalaurë reminded himself so, over and over again. He felt strangely as if walking through a narrow tunnel, where cold eyes did not reach him but where he felt the weight of coldness on his back; he kept turning around to see if anyone was following him.

His heart began to beat like a drum as he approached the finely designed house with wide gardens and arching willow trees. The stars had by now begun to peep out of the folds of the night sky, and the moon was round and grey. A door warden who was falling asleep in his chair sprang up as soon as he heard Makalaurë's approaching footsteps and held up his lantern.

"Who is it?"

"A friend of Lord Elrond's."

"I ask for your name."

"Makalaurë."

The man paused. Then he said, "I will be with you shortly," and scurried indoors. He kept Makalaurë waiting for around ten minutes, and the latter was inclined to believe that Elrond would not receive him, but just then the warden pulled open the door and said, "Please, come in."

The interior of the house looked impossibly the same as it had before. Makalaurë had time for a good peer around before a butler led him to a room with huge wooden doors and gold handles. He knocked thrice and then stood back.

"Come in," came a weary answer. Makalaurë could have sworn it was Elrond, but he had never heard the Peredhel sound so tired. The butler left, but Makalaurë hovered for a bit by the doors, wondering if he should go in. As he was about to twist one of the handles the doors swung open, revealing a very weary looking Elrond with purplish bags under his eyes. If anything, his eyes were actually red, as if he had been in tears.

"Elrond…I am sorry…I did not know I was disturbing you…"

Elrond shook his head and tried to smile. "No, Makalaurë. Come inside and have some tea."

"Such grace," thought Makalaurë as he walked in. "Did I really raise this fine lore-master? I doubt it, for he has lived far longer than the years I took care of him."

Elrond gestured for Makalaurë to sit at a round table by a dimly glowing fire, and then sat down himself. Makalaurë pursed his lips.

"Elrond, if you wish for me to leave, I shall. I will bear no grievance for it. And if you wish to talk, then…please do. It is the least I can do for you, after what I've put you through – and after you tried to help me."

Elrond sighed, but his lips pulled downwards as if he were going to sob.

"Please, Elrond." Makalaurë rose from his seat and knelt by the Lord of Imladris, who was not looking his part at all. "Tell me what is wrong."

To Makalaurë's surprise, Elrond let a sob escape his lips and said, "I will never see my children again." His hand that lay on the table began to shake violently, and his shoulders racked as tears poured down his cheeks. Makalaurë could not understand the storm of emotions that were whirling through him. The first was confusion – did his foster-son still trust him as a father? The second was fright – it was overwhelming to see this grown man whom he had not seen for millennia cry his heart out. He stood up and made Elrond stand too, and then wrapped his arms tightly about him while Elrond sobbed weakly.

"How do you know, child, how do you know?" he asked tenderly, as if he were speaking to a ten-year-old. Elrond struggled to speak, shaking his head.

"I always lose someone or the other. If it isn't my children, it's Celebrían, and if it isn't Celebrían, it's my children. Even you, Maglor. Did you even understand what you put me through when you left us?"

"Elrond, hush…" Makalaurë gently rubbed his back. "I am here, child. What did you think, that I forgot about you? I cared about you, Elrond. Had you stayed with Maitimo and me, you would have been in grave danger." He pried him apart so he could gaze into his eyes. "And your children love you, Elrond. I know what it is like to be divided from family. But they live, Elrond – in your heart. If they wished to stay in Middle-earth, it was for the love of their motherland, and not for the disregard of you. Celeborn is also there; I am sure they live in peace."

Warm tears were still sliding down Elrond's cheeks, but he had stopped sobbing. He suddenly clenched his teeth and looked at Makalaurë. "Why do you come to me now, after months of silence? What prompted you, Makalaurë? Did you want forgiveness, or simply a favour?" His voice was bitter, almost cutting – so like the young half-elf that Makalaurë had first captured.

"I ask for nothing of the sort. I merely wish to give you this." He placed the rolled parchment on the table. "You can read it later, but make sure you do." Elrond picked up the parchment, but did not unroll it. Makalaurë placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave a slight nod as goodbye.

"I leave you now, Elrond. Farewell, and goodnight." He made his way to the door, but stopped when Elrond said, "Do you still love me, Maglor? After all these years?"

Makalaurë smiled without looking back, but he turned slightly. "A question that needs neither reason nor answer, little Half-elf." He left, shutting the door quietly behind him. A great burden seemed to lift off his shoulders, and he felt he could breathe easily in the cool night air.

* * *

_Your Majesty the King,_

_Thank you for your letter. I confirm that I thought that Makalaurë had molested my daughter, but now I am sure that he did not. My daughter is well and happy, and so am I. _

_You may report this incident to the Elder King, but do so more out of the need of record than actual complaint. _

_I did not know that he had threatened anyone. I feel he is quite harmless, but I will keep a close watch on Makalaurë all the same. He will be instructing the musicians at the festival two months hence; I will send you a message in case he misbehaves. _

_Yours faithfully,_

_Sarmë._

_

* * *

_

**Fealome: Was the pace a tad better? I tried :p**

**Yávië - Autumn**

**Do inform me of the typos. I'm sure there's more than one up there...**

**Does it bother you to know that there are only three chapters left? ;)**


	17. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

"Káno, look at those fish. They're so pretty. Look! _Káno!_" Seldárë tugged impatiently at Makalaurë's sleeve. Makalaurë himself was immersed in his own deep thoughts of the performance that night. He started when Seldárë's voice pierced his ears, and finally looked down at her.

"Yes? Oh, the fish. Yes, they are beautiful." The two were in the park, and Seldárë was crouching beside the pond while Makalaurë sat on a bench. He was so distressed that day that he had not even properly combed his hair, and it stuck out at odd angles from his ponytail. He tried to straighten it, sighing a little when his finger caught a knot. Seldárë was still staring at the fish. They were very elegant, with flowing tails and scaly, white and orange bodies. Some were flecked with black as well.

"I wish I had one for just a while!" she mused. She looked up at Makalaurë, hoping he would smile and say he could help her with that, but his gaze seemed far away. Little did she know he was actually listening, but did not act like it. He suddenly let out a puff of breath and stood up and stretched.

"It is late morning. Your father should be here by now." Sarmë had slowly come to understand the fact that his daughter truly liked Makalaurë, and would let her go for little strolls with him every now and again. As soon as Makalaurë finished his sentence, they caught sight of a silver-haired man walking towards them. Seldárë leapt up and ran to him, and he picked her up and whirled her around once before setting her down again. He glanced at Makalaurë.

"Well met," he said, smiling. Makalaurë returned the gesture and put his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Are you nervous about this eve?" asked Sarmë.

Makalaurë chuckled. "I will not lie. Yes, I am."

Sarmë put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Fear not. They will love your composition."

"I do hope so, Sarmë."

They grinned at each other. Perhaps they were not the best of friends, but they somehow liked each other, though Sarmë's affection was a tad more guarded. Makalaurë's _acceptance_ of that affection was more guarded. Nonetheless, they did not hate each other, and that was enough for now. Sarmë held Seldárë's hand.

"Would you like to join us for lunch?" he asked. Makalaurë cleared his throat.

"I will join you an hour later, if that is all right with you."

"Of course." He nodded a farewell and began to walk away with his daughter. Seldárë immediately started asking questions about that night. Would Káno really instruct? Would there really be a dance? Was she truly allowed? Would Elemmírë be there? And so on and so forth.

They reached their house, and Tinweventë had already laid food on the table. They sat down to meat and bread and fruit, and washed it down with a dash of _miruvor_.

"Tonight should be a grand event," said Sarmë, popping open a bottle of the finest white wine. He poured himself and his wife a glass, but gave not a drop to Seldárë.

"A couple of years later, young one," he said, placing the bottle back in the cupboard. Seldárë scowled, but bore it because she didn't want to annoy him. But then the thought of the evening came back to her and she trundled to her room, off in her own dream world of dances and cakes and magic.

Sarmë was just clearing the table (Tinweventë had gone to take a nap) when he heard a sharp rap at the door. He opened it to find Makalaurë stand there and grinning slightly. In his hands was a clear bowl in which there swam a small golden fish.

"Makalaurë! Is that from the park?"

"Yes, but I have only got it here for a little while."

Sarmë shut the door, furrowing his brow in anxiety. "You shouldn't have done that, you know. You could get into trouble."

"It's only for a half hour or so," persisted Makalaurë setting the thing down on the dining table. Seldárë was delighted when she was called out and saw it, and spent the rest of her time gazing at the fish, occasionally tapping the glass and seeing the fish start.

Sarmë had turned back to Makalaurë. "Are you sure about this? If someone had seen, they could report you."

"I know," said Makalaurë. "But there was no one there when I took it." He had played this little game before with Elrond and Elros and it had worked. Nobody saw him, and the twins were kept happy for a good half-day. "I will keep it back shortly, anyhow. Not that anyone actually _counts _how many fish there are, but just to make sure."

Sarmë bit his lip. "No, Makalaurë. People here are cautious. I'm pretty sure someone must have been watching."

Makalaurë shrugged, though even he was a bit shaken. It was likely that someone had seen, but he could do nothing now. He began to regret his decision deeply; but then he heard Seldárë's happy giggle, and most dark thoughts were wiped from his mind in an instant. He stood up.

"I think I will have to take that from her now," he said.

When he reached the park, it was two o' clock. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then quietly slipped the fish back into the pond. It kicked its tail, happy to be back with its friends in the fresh water.

* * *

It rained gently that night. Mist rose from the lush gardens of Tirion, and the moon peeped from behind grey clouds. Music played sweetly in every square, and tables were laid full in every house. The elves would dance with the Valar the next day.

Makalaurë sat nervously in Elemmírë's room, sitting on the bed. Elemmírë himself was absent, directing last minute jobs in the main hall. The staircase had been adorned with vines and white flowers, and wreaths hung from the marble walls. The chandelier was pulled high up, and was lit with white candles. The guests had already begun to crowd the place, and Makalaurë could hear quick, rhythmic music floating down the hallway.

He leaned his elbow against his knee and cupped his chin. What would he do now? He was washed, dressed and groomed, but would he be accepted?

A knock came and without a call Elemmírë threw open the door and strode in, wearing a white and red suit trimmed with gold. He smirked slightly when he saw Makalaurë.

"I like what you're wearing." It was the robes that Nerdanel had saved for him. They hung as gracefully as they had all those years ago, ending in slight folds at his ankles. In dim light it was hard to distinguish his ebony hair from the dark suit.

Makalaurë smiled dryly in return. "Thank you. And should you really be walking around so much?"

Elemmírë waved his hand contemptuously. "I am fine. My bones have knitted together well." He flexed his arm as evidence. Makalaurë shook his head fondly.

"Are you performing tonight?" he asked. Elemmírë shook his head.

"No. I might instruct, but only later." He winked. "Sad that two of Aman's best bards are not singing, eh? Though you had better get on your feet. The audience is getting tired of these geese that don't know music."

Makalaurë laughed. "Geese? You are the one who accepted all of them!"

"True. But only because they were better than those other idiots who auditioned." He stretched and then winced as a dull pain throbbed through his back. "Get up now. You are wanted in there."

Makalaurë rose to his feet. "I hope so, Mírë. Will you be dancing?"

Elemmírë cocked an eyebrow as if to say, "Are you joking? Of course not." Makalaurë twisted his lips mockingly, and then got up and left, followed closely by his friend. They walked through the corridors, opened the double doors, and entered the huge hall. Makalaurë nearly staggered back with shock. If the party at Elrond's house was big, this was even bigger. Elves dressed in robes and dresses swirled across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and balm, and attendants rushed here and there with plates piled high with food. The candles, lamps and chandelier gave out a nearly blinding light, so that the crystals and gems that people wore around their necks and fingers glittered and flashed as they moved.

Makalaurë turned sharply to Elemmírë, all confidence gone. "You had better not announce my arrival, Mírë," he hissed, clutching Elemmírë's arm. The Vanya snorted.

"Of course not! Do you think I'm mad? Just stand up there and start instructing," he said, giving Makalaurë a little push towards the platform where the elves were performing. Yanwë was there, playing the flute smartly, and a bunch of other elves whom Makalaurë recognized.

He hesitated for a moment, looking around the room and trying to locate anyone he knew. Straining his eyes, he managed to catch a glimpse of long copper hair, and smiled. Nerdanel was here. He would talk to her later, for if he started now, he would never stop. Another look and he spotted Elrond, talking to a group of ladies. He was dressed in white and red robes, much like Elemmírë's but less fancy, and his long black hair was held back by a ruby clip. Makalaurë smiled to himself, feeling like a proud father for a moment. But then he checked himself, and reminded himself that he was not Elrond's father, as much as he wanted to be, and strode towards the musicians.

He stepped on the platform, and a few elves that were dancing cast him odd looks, but he paid no notice. Instead, he turned to the executants. He was halfway done telling them what to play when he saw someone he never expected to see at the festival.

At first he thought it was only a modestly – yet gracefully – dressed elleth with elegant dark hair held back with a silver ribbon. A white dress hung from the tips of her shoulders, clinging slightly to her slender torso and then flaring out a little from the hips. Her shoes were silver sandals, and the only jewelry she wore was a thin chain around her neck with a tiny, clear jewel in the center. Makalaurë started when he realized it was Faelwen. It had been so long since he had seen her even slightly dressed for a festival. An idea came to his mind, and he quickly changed his instructions to the musicians. They were a bit confused at first, but then understood them.

Makalaurë tapped his hand on his thigh, and the music, which was till present felicitous, almost frolicsome, changed to something slow and ribbon-like. It was joyful, and yet held deep sorrow, starting with a deep tune and then thinning out to higher notes. The elves stopped dancing at first to take in this beautiful composition, and then quickly grabbed their partners to make the most of it. Only two elves were not dancing: Nerdanel and Faelwen. Both recognized it as the piece Makalaurë had written for Faelwen, just a little before their wedding. Nerdanel eventually smiled encouragingly at her son and began to chat with another lady, but Faelwen pressed her lips together and puckered her brow. She closed her eyes and shrank into a niche by the curtains. For although it was the most beautiful music she had ever heard, she wanted no more of it.

The song stopped after a few minutes, and there was a roar of cheers and clapping of hands. Makalaurë bowed low, and then stepped down, sighing with relief. Nothing had gone wrong. The applause ended only after he had disappeared into the crowd and was lost from view.

Makalaurë collapsed into a seat near the main door, and it was not long before Sarmë himself came and took a seat opposite.

"There," he said, grinning. "I told you it would be fine. That was a splendid song. When did you write it?"

Makalaurë breathed loudly. "Millennia ago," he admitted, earning an arched eyebrow from the manager.

"And you still remember it? By the Valar, you are a genius."

Makalaurë actually laughed. "So I've been told." He stood up and carefully took off his robes – he was clad in a black tunic and breeches underneath – folded them, and sat back down again.

There were a few annoyed grunts from the crowd nearby, and Seldárë came running towards the two men, dressed in a pale yellow frock. Her silver hair was let loose, held only at the side with a little clip. Sarmë held out his arms, but to his embarrassment she jumped onto Makalaurë, squealing with delight. "I loved your song, Káno! Will you play it for me sometime? Will you?"

Makalaurë gave an abashed snort of laughter, throwing an apologetic glance at Sarmë, and nodded. Sarmë coughed slightly.

"Seldárë? You are not going to give your atar a hug?"

She grinned broadly and trotted across to him, hugging his knees. Sarmë picked her up and sat her on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his tunic, sighing. "Are you dancing with Amil?" she asked suddenly. Sarmë laughed.

"Good idea! I think I will," he said, setting her down and striding towards his wife. "Take care of Makalaurë, will you?" he called over his shoulder. Seldárë nodded smartly and turned to her tutor, who was looked quite amused.

"Are _you _going to dance with anyone?" she asked, cocking her head to one side. Makalaurë chewed his lip, all mirth gone.

"No," he said slowly.

"Why not? Which mad girl would not dance with you?"

The Noldo chuckled at the irony of that statement. Which mad girl _would_ dance with him? In any case, he wanted to dance with only one woman, and that woman would never have him.

But Seldárë would not give up that easily. She swept her gaze around the room. All ladies were occupied – except one. Seldárë scrutinized her closely. She was pretty. Simple, but pretty. She sat on a stool by a curtain, her neck bent to one side at a graceful angle, her hands folded neatly on her lap. Perhaps she was good enough for Seldárë's tutor.

"Come on!" said Seldárë, taking Makalaurë by the hand. "I will make you dance."

"Oh, child," said Makalaurë, distressed. "Please, no. I do not wish to…"

But Seldárë was dragging him with all her strength across the room, and he dared not pull away lest he hurt her or drew attention. So he let himself be led, only to stop short and gasp when he saw the lady whom Seldárë was calling to.

"Seldárë! No!"

But Faelwen had already heard all that the girl had to say, and was now looking wearily at Makalaurë.

"Is this what you taught her, then?" she asked, her voice cool. "To get her to do your prodding for you? Are you not ashamed of yourself?"

Seldárë was angered by her words, and immediately grasped Makalaurë's hand again. "Come on," she said, tugging at it. But Makalaurë did not budge. His lips trembled.

"No, Faelwen," he said quietly. "For she does not know who you are."

Seldárë was now looking at them, a baffled expression on her face. Did these two know each other? They just looked at each other, expressionless. Finally, Makalaurë said, "Seldárë, I think Mírë needs some help with the guests. Run along, now." She hesitated, looking suspiciously at them, but then went off, scowling.

Makalaurë turned back to Faelwen. "I do not wish to trouble you. But I would appreciate it if you were not so caustic in your words."

Faelwen only shook her head as if to say, "You dare tell that to me? You, who are a kinslayer and a traitor?" But she said, "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"People are starting to stare." She inched closer to him and took his hand. "Dance with me."

Makalaurë gave her an incredulous look before glancing around. Indeed, people were staring to gape at them. Nerdanel and Elrond were together in a corner, watching them with pursed lips. Elrond looked as if he wanted to sprint forward, but Nerdanel was holding him by the arm.

Before Makalaurë knew it he was being led to the middle of the crowd. Faelwen held her dress and curtsied, bowing her head slightly, and it was only then that Makalaurë remembered and gave a hurried bow. He took her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, the music switched and another dance began.

At first neither spoke. Their movements were graceful but stiff, and Makalaurë looked everywhere but at her face. A second later they exchanged surprised glances and turned their heads towards the musicians. Elemmírë was instructing them and grinning smugly.

"You say that you did not plan anything, yet why is that song playing?" asked Faelwen. It was the song that Makalaurë and Elemmírë had jointly composed for their first anniversary.

Makalaurë was equally baffled and annoyed. "I do not know. I never asked him to." Seldárë was sitting at the edge of the platform, swinging her legs. She looked almost as smug as Elemmírë. Perhaps this was her doing.

"And the song earlier?"

He blushed. "I did not plan that, but I wanted to, yes."

"Why?"

"To show that I love you."

Faelwen kept mum. She was beginning to doubt that this was actually Makalaurë. At present he seemed quiet, but not shy, and his eyes held a depth she had not seen in them before. There was sorrow in those depths, and a kind of subtle joy. His hands felt rough in her own, and she knew it was because of his scars.

"I thought you burned only one hand?"

"No. It was painful, so I shifted it to the other. A foolish thing to do, but now it is done."

There were a thousand questions Faelwen wanted to ask him, but how could she? Especially since she had acted so cold towards him. What was more, did he even deserve her attention after all he had done?

She heard her name being called and looked up. Makalaurë was studying the floor, his jaw tight. "I hope you can find the grace in you to forgive me. I can never forgive myself, for that is my duty, but it would relieve the burden in my heart if you would understand."

"For what, Makalaurë?"

He closed his eyes, and suddenly looked far too old. "There is no reason. Only to ease your heart, and mine. I do not ask you to, but I still hope you do."

Faelwen looked away, pretending to scrutinize the walls. "Why do you so desperately wish for me to love you?"

"How could I not, Faelwen? Were it not for you, I would have long ago given up my life. My soul was kept alive only by your memory, and Amil's. When I took in Elwing's sons, my deepest wish was that you could be with me. Maitimo I loved, but your love is different."

Faelwen was silent. What could she say? She felt her hand being freed. The music had stopped. Makalaurë bowed again, his braid falling over his shoulder. It was meticulously done, not a hair out of place. Why this seemed to both irk Faelwen and please her at the same time, she did not know. She watched his form disappear into the crowd.

* * *

"Clear that up. Now, don't cut yourself." A careless hand had dropped a glass vase to the floor, and an unobservant guest had gone back home with a limp. Elemmírë bent to help the attendant who was carefully picking up the sharp pieces. Sarmë walked up to him cheerfully.

"That was a wonderful night! Far better than I expected."

"Yes. Thank Manwë the guests have mostly left." A few scattered elves were still loitering in the hall, talking. "Where is Seldárë?"

"I do not know. Last I saw her she was with Tinweventë. I think they went to the restroom."

There was a small cough behind them, and they turned to see Faelwen standing there, her hands folded in front of her navel. Sarmë bowed politely, but Elemmírë narrowed his eyes.

"I thank you for the invitation, Sarmë. It was a beautiful night."

"That is good to hear. Did you have a good time?"

She paused. "Yes…would you know where Makalaurë is?"

The two men exchanged glances, and Elemmírë rose from the floor. "No, we are sorry. You might try his house."

"No, he will not be there." She looked distracted. They apologized again, and she left, pulling her shawl about her shoulders. Winter was nearing, and although it never snowed and the trees hardly shed their leaves, it could get chilly. She was halfway to her own house when she saw a cloaked figure standing by the street. At first she paid no attention, but then the figure cast back its hood and she gasped. "Eönwë!"

He gazed blankly at her. "I think I know where he is."

* * *

The wind ruffled his hair as Makalaurë stood with his arms resting on the balustrade of the bridge. Vines hung solemnly from above and obscured his view of the river below. The flowers were fewer, now that it was autumn, and the night was cold. He had left his robes with his mother, saying he would probably not use them again. She had looked sad, but said that she understood.

He raised his head. It was morning now; but the sun would rise only in around four hours. He felt like a shell: empty and useless. What was his whole life? Futile? It had to be. What was the use of living for so long when he had done nothing?

Of course, people needed him. They were few, but they were precious. And if not for himself, he would have to live for them. _I suppose that is my only use. _

He heard footsteps behind him, and without turning he said, "You are here. Why?"

Faelwen halted at a few feet behind him. "I do not know," she replied. In the distance the crickets creaked, and the moonbeams played on the flowing water below. Makalaurë sighed deeply.

"It is maddening," he whispered.

"What is?"

"Everything." He suddenly turned. "Have you any idea what my life has been like? Have you any idea how hard it is being as wretched as I am? And the woe! I would die for you, Faelwen. What is more, I would live for you, cursed as I am. And yet I cannot ask the same of you, for you deserve so much more, and I, less. Why did I come here, Faelwen? Why did I listen?" He was talking more to himself than her.

Faelwen kept her lips sealed. She walked over to where he was standing and placed her hands on the balustrade. They were now facing opposite directions, neither looking at each other. Makalaurë, embarrassed at his outburst, hung his head.

"Will you tell me…" Faelwen said.

"Tell you what?"

"About Beleriand."

He twisted his head sharply towards her. Her eyes were cast to the rolling waters; she was pointedly avoiding his gaze.

Was he forgiven? Slowly, he straightened. "Come to my house and I will tell you all."

But Faelwen sighed and looked away. "Not tonight. Tomorrow. I will see you tomorrow. At the grove."

He nodded. She crossed her arms and began to walk away, her eyes shaded by her long lashes. Makalaurë could not resist a question.

"Will you really be there?"

She paused. "Yes," she said, and moved on.

* * *

**Whew! Inform me about the typos, please! Thanks!**


	18. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-one**

Makalaurë jumped out of bed, not bothering to straighten the covers. The sun had already risen, and the fields were bathed in gold. He made himself a hurriedly cooked breakfast, washed it down with water and sprinted to the door. There he stopped, taking deep breaths. He feared last night was only a dream, and when he walked to the grove, it would be empty. Sighing, he twisted the handle and walked out, shading his eyes with his hand as the light hit him in the eye. A cool autumn breeze blew, ruffling the leaves on the trees. He went to the grove and looked around. Cursing his own destitution, he sat down on the grass and put his head in his hands.

He need not have worried so. A few minutes later someone came walking up the path; it was Faelwen. She was clad in a simple dress with her hair pulled back into a knot. She stopped in front of him while he merely looked at her. She averted her eyes.

"Are you going to tell me, then?"

He nodded. "Sit down by me."

She hesitated, but then sat, folding her dress neatly under her. An awkward silence ensued. Neither knew precisely what to say.

"Was Beleriand very different to Aman?" she asked finally. Makalaurë glanced at her hand that lay by her side, pursing his lips.

"Yes. People were a lot coarser there. There was no light in their eyes, alike to that in ours. The woods were darker, and the streams not as fresh. Suspicion lurked at the back of everyone's mind. Orcs were present…" He shuddered slightly, remembering their hideous faces. "Deceit was more common. It was…less innocent than over here, in all."

He fell silent. What more could he say? After all, land was land, different only in atmosphere, geography and people.

They dawdled for a while, fumbling with minor questions about small doings in each other's lives.

"Faelwen," said Makalaurë at last. "Do you wish to stay with me? I will never force you, for I have wronged you more than you ever deserved, but I cannot live in suspense like this. Please tell me, even if you are to be harsh. I cannot live in more uncertainty." He looked straight in her eyes, desperately demanding an answer. Faelwen chewed her lip and looked to the ground, finding his gaze unbearable.

"I do not know…"

"You _must_ know!" he said suddenly, seizing her hands in his. She looked up, startled.

"I have lived for so long knowing nothing! I never knew if Elrond was all right, or if you were also cursed because of me, or if Amil had long since died of grief! I knew nothing more of Valinor, of what was happening there, of what had changed. I never knew if my soul would leave my body because of weariness, and many times I wished it did! I spent over a thousand years on that forsaken shore, not speaking, unable to think. You must tell me now, Faelwen, or I shall lose my mind, as if I haven't lost enough of it!"

Faelwen dryly raised an eyebrow. "You are saying you are half-mad, and yet you want me to stay with you?"

"Faelwen…" His voice was weary, devoid of any strength. "I am begging you. Please, say yes or no."

She stood up suddenly, gazing at the fields. "What do you think, Makalaurë? If you were me, would you say yes?"

"I do not know. It depends on how you think. If you feel you love me, and you can forgive me, then say yes. If you feel you are devoid of any affection for me and wish to hate me forever, then say no. Just say _something_." He rose to his feet and stepped in front of her, his eyes pleading. She studied his face warily, as if he was some new horse at the stables and she did not know whether he was dangerous or not. Her shoulders slumped.

"No."

"No…" he echoed the word. His voice was devoid of any emotion. "Do you really mean it?"

Her lips quivered slightly and her hands clenched. He put a hand on her arm. "Do you mean it?"

She still said nothing. "I feel guilty for doing this to you…"

"Do not feel guilty. I asked you for an answer. You gave it to me." He stepped back, trying to keep his face straight. "You can go." He turned his back, struggling with tears. There was no sound, but she had probably walked away. After waiting around a minute, he sighed wearily and turned back, ready to go back to his house. To his immense surprise, she was still standing there, a strange look in her eye.

He gazed at her as if to say, "Why?"

She smiled crookedly. "Years ago, I was convinced no man could love me more than you could. I called myself foolish for thinking that when you left. I hated you and all associated with you. Yet now…" She lowered her eyes. "I see that you were sincere in your words when we spoke the name of Eru to seal our bond."

"Faelwen…do not speak to me in riddles." He wearily rubbed his eyes. Faelwen said nothing more, but pursed her lips. Her breathing was growing a bit heavy. A tear slid from her eye and slipped down her cheek slowly. "Faelwen." Makalaurë held her cheek gently. He searched her eyes, looking for an answer. He found it. Slowly, he ran his finger along her jaw, letting it linger beneath her chin. He tilted her head up, moving his hand to her neck. "Do not cry, my love," he said softly. "None of this was your fault." He hesitated before bringing his face close to hers, closing his eyes.

"Kanafinwë." A brusque voice made them leap apart and stand awkwardly, looking at two Teler elves with grim expressions on their faces. They both wore identical grey clothes with black boots that rose to their knees. Makalaurë recognized them at once.

"You! Both of you! What do you want now?" he said. "Have you come to accuse me of murdering someone now?"

"No," said Felyawentë coolly. "We have come to accuse you of thievery. You stole a fish from the park pond yesterday, did you not?"

Faelwen's eyes widened and she glanced sharply at Makalaurë, who was somehow managing to keep a stony expression. "I never stole it. I merely took it at the request of that girl for half an hour, and then put it back. You can check if you like."

"I have no need to check," snarled Lornavor. "I saw you with my own eyes."

"Then you obviously did not see me put it back."

"The fact is you took it."

"If you are so desperate to see all the fish safe in the pond, do so."

"Do you think I am going to count?"

"Probably. If you are that distressed over one fish, you likely _would _count."

"How dare you!"

"_Silence_!" cried Felyawentë, clenching his fists. He took a long breath and extended a hand. "Makalaurë, you are to come to the palace for judgement. I will not negotiate."

Faelwen, rather unwisely, decided to step in. "Why are you accusing him as if he killed someone? If he took a fish, then he took it, but do not act as if you own that park."

Lornavor sneered at her. "I know you. You're just a nosy busybody. Mind your own business for once, lady, and let us handle this."

It took all Makalaurë had to keep himself from striking Lornavor to the ground. "You may do and say what you will with me," he said through clenched teeth. "But you will not insult my wife."

"They're both liars, as it seems," said Lornavor, turning to Felyawentë. "This woman said she had no connections with him anymore. Yet we caught them displaying affection for all to see!"

"Our affairs are our own business," said Faelwen icily. Lornavor sighed deeply and drew a knife that had been till present hanging at his belt.

"If you do not come, Makalaurë," he said in a low voice, "I will be forced to take drastic action." He had no intention of harming him with the knife – Atatyaro had forbidden any act of violence – but he could use it as a stimulation of fear. Faelwen grew frantic at the sight of it.

Lornavor took deliberate aim and hurled the knife at Makalaurë, intending to miss his torso. There was a gasp as the blade punctured Faelwen's side, and a spurt of blood landed before her feet. For the next few moments all was chaos. Faelwen was on her knees, her face contorted in pain, while Makalaurë held her shoulders and tried to ease the knife out of her flesh. "You'll be fine," he said shrilly, though his fingers shook violently, and he only succeeded to wedge the blade out a little. Blood drawn from enemies was one thing - blood drawn from his own wife was another. His mind convoluted into tangled thoughts as he fumbled with the knife, too pained to weep.

"You fool!" snarled Felyawentë. "You have hurt her! Get her to a healer. Now!" He turned to Makalaurë and yanked him up by the elbow. "And you come with me before you cause any more trouble!"

In his wrath, Makalaurë struck out with a hand and managed to bloody Felyawentë's nose. The Teler staggered back, groaning slightly before casting him a dark look. "You are a convict, Fëanorion. You will face judgement, and all its consequences." He grasped Makalaurë once again by the upper arm and began to haul him along. Makalaurë hung his head, not caring for the tears that seeped slowly down his cheeks as he was roughly yanked towards the palace of Tirion. _What have I done?_

* * *

"Did you lose your mind, Fëanorion, or were you trying to be funny?" Arafinwë's voice thundered through the vast, empty hall. Everyone but Makalaurë and Felyawentë had been dismissed. The King's glare could have bored holes in steel, and even Felyawentë could not for long gaze into his eyes. He stopped directly in front of the stooping Makalaurë and forced him to look up.

"Answer me clearly! What were you doing?"

"Your Highness…I apologize. I was in the wrong. The girl asked me to get a fish for her, so I…"

"You thought you could use her as an excuse for all your actions, did you? Perhaps you really did molest her."

"Your Highness, I never did. The fish I took for a half hour and nothing more."

Arafinwë bent to stare him straight in the eye. "But you took what was not yours to take, for however short a period."

Makalaurë lowered his gaze. "Yes, I did."

"Why? Do you not care for your life, or for the feelings of your family? What will they say when they hear of all these things?"

Makalaurë realized with shame that he had not thought of that even once as he slipped the fish into his bowl. He bowed his head. He heard the King walk away and sit back down on his seat.

"And what about this other accident?" he asked, looking at Felyawentë, who cleared his throat.

"Your Highness, Lornavor and I meant to peacefully take Makalaurë away. Lornavor, like a fool, drew his knife, not meaning to use it, and threatened Makalaurë. Faelwen got in the way, thinking he meant harm, and hence got hurt by accident."

"Is this true, Makalaurë?"

Makalaurë clenched his teeth. "Yes, Your Highness."

"And Felyawentë's bloodied nose, how do you defend yourself for that?"

The words stuck in Makalaurë's throat like dry bread, but he forced them out anyway."My lord, please understand. I have been estranged from my wife for an unfathomable period of time. I was overjoyed today when I found she still treasured the bond between us. That is why, when I saw her hurt, I was unable to control my actions. I was in the wrong, yes, but I would also like to say this." He straightened, looking Arafinwë in the eye. "When I only held up a stone, and never harmed anyone, I was handled roughly and treated unjustly. When this man threatens my wife with a dagger and nearly kills her, he gets away with it. I ask, is this just?"

Arafinwë sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a hand. "It is not," he admitted. "But the difference is, Makalaurë, that you are already guilty of slaying your kin and rebelling against the Valar. Your hands are more red than anyone's in Aman. The Valar in their mercy allowed you to come back, but put you under strictures so that you were not thrown out again. That was why you were treated so. However, I will not just let Lornavor go. He will come here and hear my judgement." He turned to Felyawentë. "Is that clear? Tell your friend to be here at sundown."

Felyawentë bowed. "It is."

Arafinwë nodded grimly. "This whole account will be sent to the Elder King at once. Makalaurë, you will wait in your house, not moving out, till you hear from a herald. Is that clear?"

"My lord, can I not see my wife?"

Arafinwë pitied him, but could bring himself to know compassion at this point. "No, you may not. However…" He mused and then rang a bell, and immediately an attendant whisked in through the doors.

"Find out where the Lady Faelwen is," said the King. "And tell me at once." The attendant nodded and walked briskly out the door. They heard him mutter a few orders outside, and then all fell silent. Makalaurë could feel his purpose of living slipping away like sand through his fingers.

"Makalaurë. Felyawentë. You are both dismissed. Felyawentë, you must accompany your friend this eve. You, Makalaurë, I might or might not call, depending on the circumstances of your actions." But as the two bowed and walked towards the double-doors, Arafinwë bid Makalaurë to wait. The latter glazed blankly at at the King, who sighed and closed his eyes. "I do not suggest you hope too much," said Arafinwë in a quiet voice. Makalaurë gave a solitary nod.

"Hope is for the privileged," he said. "I have none." Arafinwë made no attempt to argue.

The street was more or less empty as the two walked out. As Makalaurë with a heavy heart began to walk away, Felyawentë paused and said tentatively, "You may be a kinslayer, a traitor and a thief, but you are still an elf. I feel for you and your wife." With that he went, leaving Makalaurë in mild stupor. But then he sighed and made for his house, not giving it any more thought. He walked, alone, stiff and miserable, dreading what was to come. When he stuck his key into the lock of his door, he found the creaking noise as it opened strangely eerie. Sweeping his gaze across the small room filled with warm sunlight, he felt it was strangely empty, as if he were entering a house that a stranger had once lived in happily and then had passed away.

* * *

Morning merged to afternoon, and afternoon to evening. Stars pierced the night sky, but there was no moon. Makalaurë sat silent and brooding in his living room, on a sofa that was by a window. The curtains fluttered gently with the breeze, brushing against his face. "What am I here for?" he asked himself bitterly. "I hurt someone everywhere I turn. Perhaps it is best that I leave. Yes, I must leave." Another part of him answered, "What about Nerdanel and Mahtan? What about Elrond?"

"They will survive well enough. In fact, they won't get hurt if I am not there. It is like I am cursed for life. I cannot love, cannot do, cannot think. My life is less than worthless."

"Yes, the very life Eru gave you."

"The very life I cast away," he admitted finally, shutting the window softly. _Faelwen…_

A rapid knocking came at the door and he jumped. "Open in the name of Manwë!" The voice sounded suspiciously familiar, and Makalaurë ran to the door and yanked it open, and his thoughts were confirmed when he saw Elemmírë standing there, a deep scowl on his face. He was holding in an iron grip a man with long, silver hair and piercing eyes. He was adorned in grey trousers and a black tunic that made his eyes glitter dangerously. Atatyaro.

"Let me in," said Elemmírë, shoving past Makalaurë and into the kitchen, where he sat Atatyaro down on a chair and held him fast. "Do you have any rope?"

"Wait." Then he changed his mind. "It's in the cupboard," said Makalaurë, bewildered. Who was this man? And why in Manwë's name was he being treated like a ruffian? And by Elemmírë! At this moment the Vanya was binding the man's wrists with strong rope and then tying him to the chair.

"This man," he gasped angrily, his eyes furious. "I caught this man sneaking around your house, a dagger in his hand. He was looking suspiciously through all your windows. I thought he would go, but when I waited he wouldn't budge. It is clear he wished to kill you." He threw a curved knife on the tabletop. "Is that not true?"

"It is not," was the calm reply. And it was true. Killing was immoral, a blasphemy, a spit in the face of Eru Ilúvatar. He had meant only to threaten Makalaurë, to see if he would fight back or kill him. He would prove then that no man could ever change, and that mercy had to stop beyond a point. What else was justice?

Elemmírë was not convinced. He growled and yanked Atatyaro's hair. "Liar! Tell us the truth! Who are you, slave?"

"Elemmírë," said Makalaurë calmly. "I do not know this man."

"Perhaps not, but it is clear he knows you!"

"Mírë. Leave us. I will handle this."

Elemmírë looked doubtful. What would Makalaurë do? Sing this man's ears off till he finally confessed? "But…"

"No buts. I will take care of it."

Elemmírë snorted and shrugged. "Suit yourself, then. I am going."

"Elemmírë. Thank you for everything, but what exactly were you doing outside my house?"

"I heard about what happened today." His voice sounded awkward. "I wished to meet you, that is all. Sarmë gave me permission to leave the school. Farewell." With that he bowed and left, shutting the front door behind him. Makalaurë thanked his stars that Elemmírë was an easygoing, relaxed person. Anyone else would have probably taken offense at having being told to leave. He took a seat opposite the man and crossed his arms. A candle that was flickering on the counter cast a pale yellow light on their faces, and they looked more like something out of a tapestry than actual people.

"Who are you?" asked Makalaurë, two lines creasing his brow.

"Atatyaro."

"Did you truly intend to kill me?"

"No."

"Then why…"

Atatyaro narrowed his eyes. "You are completely ignorant, are you not? That's the way you Noldor are. Do you not know who I am? You have never heard my name? I am not some random elf who wishes to have revenge, I am Vienandë's brother!"

To his surprise, Makalaurë did not start violently or cry out in horror. He looked a little surprised, but it only showed by the glint in his eyes. After a silence, he said, "I see. And you wish to have your vengeance. Yet why not kill me?"

"Because killing is wrong. I wanted to prove that you are still a dishonest man."

"Ah. I understand better now. So those two Teleri are your minions? I see." He paused. "Your one slave nearly had me brought before the Valar for no reason. The same one nearly killed my wife. Actually, perhaps she is dead. Furthermore, I may be sentenced to death because of you." He rose from his seat slowly. "At last, I know what to do." He fingered the knife that lay on the table, and then gripped the handle in his hand. He walked behind Atatyaro, who sat grim and cold. "May this cause no grievance between us."

* * *

**Very crammed and fast paced, sorry. **


	19. Chapter 22

**A/N: Please take into consideration that this is not the last chapter (and neither is the next one). **

**I have also altered the previous chapter a little. Please re-read it before you come to this one.**

**Chapter Twenty-two**

Silence loomed in the room. Not a quiver did Makalaurë's hand make, not a drop of sweat beaded Atatyaro's brow.

"It would be a mercy to kill you," mused Makalaurë. "I would rid us both of our sufferings, or at least yours. My own suffering is caused by only me."

"Get over with it," said Atatyaro, his voice cool. They stayed in the same position, Atatyaro bound tightly to the kitchen chair and Makalaurë standing forebodingly behind him, knife in hand. The taper was nearly out, and wax was dripping on the counter.

"Your brother was a dear friend of mine," said Makalaurë. He struck a chord. Atatyaro said nothing, but his lips quivered slightly. The mention of his brother by his killer brought sharp tears to his eyes, though they did not fall. "I deeply regret what I did to both him and you, and have so ever since I made the mistake of killing him."

"What are you trying to do? Offer compensation by asking for pardon? You will not get it from me. Never."

"I do not ask for pardon." He paused. "Would you be happy if my wife died?" he asked in a low voice. Atatyaro looked indignant.

"I do not wish for anyone's death. But I would be lying if I said I would feel for you."

"I see." Makalaurë ran his index finger along the cold blade. His reflection flashed back at him mockingly. The traitor. The kinslayer. He placed the point of the dagger against Atatyaro's back.

"May Ilúvatar curse your bones," hissed the captive. He felt the blade move across his back, but there was no pain. In a second his bonds were cut, and he was free. He was too stunned to speak.

"Go," said Makalaurë, tucking the blade away. Atatyaro stood up slowly, gaping at him._ Why? _Makalaurë turned his back to him. "I said leave. Too much blood has been spilt. Revenge is for the weak minded." He walked to the other end of the room, as if dismissing him.

Atatyaro continued to stare at him, but moved back at a wary pace until he was at the door. He groped for the handle, twisted it and went outside. As he shut the door he saw Makalaurë sit down heavily in his chair and put his head in his hands.

He began to walk. Not knowing where he was going, he walked for ten minutes, down the hill. His shoulders remained hunched and his arms, crossed tightly over his chest. His silver hair hung thinly to the small of his back. The burning lamps cast a vague light on his face, and had anyone seen him, they would have thought he was half a corpse. When his mind came to consciousness, he found he was at the bridge. Putting his arm on the balustrade, he began to ponder.

Why had he let him go? Were not all men given a _fëa_ which could not be altered? Were they not inclined to do things in a set pattern? If they were not, then Makalaurë was innocent.

But what of the deeds he had already done? What of the murder, the treachery, the thievery? Were those things not unforgivable? Or had he already paid the price for keeping the Oath? Why, what had he done to purge himself? He did not know.

After his brother died he had lived for only one purpose: to never forgive or forget the deed that was done, and to continue to despise whomever or whatever was concerned with Curufinwë Fëanáro. Now what was there? Nothing. Emptiness.

His gaze fell to the cold, dark waters below. No one would survive a fall in there, he mused at random. The water swirled in dangerous rapids, and it was deep. No fish inhabited this water.

Straightening himself, he blindly made his way to his house near the library. The faint sounds of leaves rustling and elves singing seemed to come from a great distance. Even in the city of Tirion, where cups were raised and people laughed and sang, he was alone.

His legs felt numb by the time he reached. His house was a humble one-storey building with latticed windows and dark wooden floors. Entering his house and sitting down at a desk in the living room, he took a quill pen and parchment and began to write. The writing flowed like winding vines, beautiful in every curve. Not a stem was longer than the other, no letter in any different design than the other. His calligraphy was a work of art.

_To the King Arafinwë,_

_All research I did on engineering is to be submitted to the school of sciences in Tirion. All my medical research is to be given to Lord Elrond. _

_There are jewels that my mother gave me when I came of age. They are lying in the cupboard in my bedroom, and are to be granted to the royal treasury. _

_My house, I leave for any soul who wishes to inhabit it._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Atatyaro._

Breathing heavily, he set the pen back into the inkpot and blew out his candle. He sat a while in his chair, knees apart and hands limp. Then he dragged back his chair, took off his coat, hung it on the stand, and left. Shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets, he made his way back to the bridge, feeling empty and lost. His feet did not seem to touch the ground at all. He could not feel his tread. The cold wind was nothing to him.

When he got there, looked up at the barely perceptible stars above, and then down at the water below. _Come,_ it seemed to say. _Come, I'll help you. _

Hoisting himself up on the railing, he held a vine for support. He looked around to see if anyone was there. No, the place was deserted as a moor. Deserted, like him. Deserted, like his thoughts. Closing his eyes and mouthing a prayer to the One, he let himself fall, feeling the wind tug at the breath in his lungs. The waters closed above his silver head and tangled his limbs. Had anyone been there to see, they would have noticed in the dark night only a shadow that flickered in the air for a while, and then was gone.

His last thoughts were given only to his brother.

* * *

_Meanwhile_

Makalaurë breathed heavily at his table. His mind was in a tumult, not allowing him to think. He pressed his fingers against his scalp and rubbed it. He could hear his own heart thud against his ribs. The candle had long since gone out. An hour flew by like that. Just when he thought he could stand the deathly silence no longer, another knock came at his door. He got up and opened the door. A messenger bearing the seal of Arafinwë stood there, his lips pressed tightly together.

"Makalaurë," he said, "you have leave to see your wife." He was clad in robes of pale blue, cream and gold, but lacked the gait and posture of a royal.

Makalaurë's eyes grew wide. "Then I have been pardoned by the Valar?"

"I do not know. I was only told to give you this message."

He sounded awkward, but Makalaurë paid no heed to his tone. He felt a smile spread across his face, and immediately he slipped his feet into his sandals (which lay by the window), slammed the door, thanked the messenger and was about to rush when he remembered. His legs wobbled a bit with the strain of keeping them straight.

"I am sorry, where is she?"

"At Lord Elrond's house."

There was no better place. Makalaurë ran as fast as he could, the wind tugging at his loose hair. He got a few stares from the few elves that roamed the streets, but he took no notice. His mind was only on reaching Elrond's house.

In their youth, he and Maitimo would race across their gardens, their hair scraped away from their foreheads and their bare feet muddied by the damp ground. Often the run would be from the ponds to the half-broken stone wall some two miles away, and by the end they would be breathless and collapse on the ground, half-gasping and half-laughing. Makalaurë felt like that now, his heart in his throat.

By the time he got there, his hair was in a tangle and his sandals were loose. The guard who had been there the last time looked strangely at him.

"I need to go inside," said Makalaurë rapidly, and the poor guard could only nod at his frantic tone and open the door. "Is there a medical wing?"

The guard said it was in the left of the building. Makalaurë forgot to thank him in his haste and rushed on. He got lost and had to ask for directions several times, and when he finally found the room he paused for breath, then knocked. Immediately, Elrond's voice floated through the wood. "Come in."

He entered into a relatively small room with a few latticed windows and light green walls with painted white flowers. Eight single beds were placed against the walls, four on each side. Only one of them was occupied. Faelwen lay there, pale but breathing. The duvet had been pulled down to her waist, and Makalaurë saw that her torso had been bandaged, modestly covering her bosom. Elrond was sitting beside her on a stool, but he stood up when he saw Makalaurë.

"She is all right," he said as Makalaurë walked warily to the bed and held her hand. "I gave her some painkillers and dressed the wound. Luckily, it was not terribly deep, and only faintly punctured an organ. She's a strong lady," he added in good humour. Makalaurë smiled at him. Elrond had grown to be a fine man. The folds of his mantle fell perfectly, not a hair escaped his smooth dark braids. Was this really the young elfling that had turned his nose up at lore and music, once upon a time? He had tried to make Elrond read from his library in Amon Ereb, but the boy would, at least initially, sniff and go off to sulk by the windows.

Makalaurë looked down.

"Elrond, I have never said so, but I am so glad I fostered you for those short years. Had I been your real father, I would never bother with having another child. And I do not know if you would appreciate this, but I am so proud of you. I cannot help feeling like you are my son."

Elrond looked mildly surprised. His lips pursed and his shoulders went loose. But then he smiled a smile that could have lit up the darkest of rooms and gazed back at Makalaurë. "Thank you," he said. To his surprise, Makalaurë walked over to him and embraced him tightly.

"I love you, Elrond. I have not been able to say it before, but I am saying it now."

Elrond felt his foster-father's soft hair brush against his hand. He buried his face in Makalaurë's shoulder, finding no words to say.

A soft groan made them release each other.

"Faelwen." Makalaurë knelt by the bed. Faelwen stirred and slowly opened her eyes. They glimmered blue-gold in the soft candlelight.

"Makalaurë?" she whispered, blinking.

Elrond cleared his throat. "I have some other pressing business to attend to," he said graciously. "Farewell. Faelwen, I shall be with you in a half hour. If you need anything, ask Makalaurë to ring the bell." He gestured at the small bell on the bedside table, smiled and left.

Makalaurë shifted his gaze to Faelwen, who was looking more or less normal, albeit a little stunned. "What happened? Did they take you to the King?" she asked weakly, wincing slightly at the pain in her side. Makalaurë decided it was better to stay off the topic.

"Never mind," he said. "I am so glad you are safe." He embraced her gently, not wanting to hurt her.

"Will you stay?" she asked. He smiled.

"As long as you wish me to."

"Then stay till morning." She brushed her lips against his cheek. He straightened and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his.

"Does this mean you will meet my mother more often?" he asked jokingly. She chuckled as best as she could and then winced slightly.

"Probably. I like her."

He raised an eyebrow and laughed softly. He began to rub her hand when he felt that her fingers were cold. They stayed like that for a while. Faelwen's eyes began to close, and at length she gave a small sigh, clasped his hand, and fell asleep. Her hair lay tousled behind her head. Makalaurë slowly raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, before setting it down. How many times had he done that during the Time of the Trees? Countless, probably; but he never got tired of it.

He began to muse, absently placing his chin in his hand. Had Faelwen intended to test him? It was not likely; she wasn't the type to do that. Had she truly resented him earlier? How could she just change her mind? In the end he decided it was only due to the fact that he would never understand women.

But perhaps they could finally start a family. Exactly when, he did not care. But the thought of actually being able to laugh, to live and to love made his heart beat faster. He looked at Faelwen, whose long lashes brushed against her cheek. He stroked it gently, biting his lip as he thought of her as a mother. It was a little hard. He had seen his own mother give birth to five children, and it didn't create a pretty picture. After the birth of the twins, Nerdanel had been so exhausted that for a week she mostly just slept.

An authoritative knock made Makalaurë start and Faelwen wake up, and the door swung open with a rude creak. Makalaurë stood up and stared at the tall figure against the door.

"Eönwë! What are you doing here?"

_You are to come with me_, he communicated. His face was grim and stony, and showed no signs of mirth. Makalaurë eyed him carefully, trying to understand what was happening, and then looked down at his wife. Faelwen was looking at him with anxious eyes and a creased brow. She placed a limp hand on his.

"Makalaurë…"

He bent and pressed his lips to hers, silencing her. "I love you," he murmured, shutting his eyes.

"And I, you," he heard her reply. He pressed his forehead against hers, looking deep into her eyes, before kissing her gently again. Then he straightened, giving her hand a squeeze, went to the door and shut it quietly behind him. Eönwë was waiting by a pillar. He shook his head and pressed his lips together. They both knew what he meant. Without a word, Eönwë led him outside to a carriage that was waiting by the gate. Two grey mares stamped on the ground, and one whinnied. The driver silenced her with a pat. Eönwë opened the door and ushered Makalaurë in, before getting in himself. At a word from the driver, the carriage gave a jolt and started to roll down the street.

At the music school, a shout went up.

"What? What did you say?" Elemmírë resisted the urge to catch the messenger by the collar and shake him. The latter looked irked.

"Look, Sir, I came at any rate to talk with the manager, not you. So if you would be so kind and _let me in_, I can carry out my business."

"But he cannot be! He cannot!" Elemmírë did not even try to lower his voice. He and Sarmë had both been working overtime at the school, and this news had distraught him.

"The message is clear. Kanafinwë Makalaurë is sentenced to death, by order of the Valar. Let me in."

"The damn I will!" cried Elemmírë, pushing past him and running onto the street. He had to get Seldárë.

* * *

The ride to the Máhanaxar seemed both slower and faster than Makalaurë deemed it really was. He perceived faintly the small bumps along the winding road down the hill, and the more or less straight path across the plain. The inside of the carriage was dark and empty. Only a lamp hung from outside, near the rider's shoulder. Eönwë sat with his arms crossed and his chin bent low, as if he was sleeping, but actually he was observing the intricate pattern of his robes. Makalaurë sat on the edge of the seat, his hands folded on his lap and his knees together like a schoolboy. His hair curtained his face, pale from anticipation of his near future.

"Your mother and your grandfather will be there also," said Eönwë suddenly. Makalaurë glanced at him briefly.

"I thought this punishment was for me, not my family," he replied quietly. Eönwë granted him the dignity of looking up.

"It _is_ for you. Your family came at their own will. I pity you, but your mother more."

Makalaurë could not argue with that. He looked away and placed his head against the trembling wall of the carriage. He did not want his family to be there. Why should they be forced to witness the whole horror of what would happen? His fists tightened on his knees. This was too wrong. His whole life had been too wrong. _And it was my fault_, he added silently.

"What about my wife?" he asked suddenly, turning his head slightly in Eönwë's direction.

"What do you mean?"

"I...don't know," he said slowly. He just wanted her to be safe.

"She will be allowed to take another spouse, if that is what you mean."

Makalaurë made no answer. He bit his lip and shut his eyes, trying to rid himself of the image in his mind.

Outside, the sky was turning pale.

Elemmírë held tightly onto Seldárë as the horse galloped swiftly across the plain. He had ransacked a stallion from the small stables by the school, and the farrier had shouted at him, but he had taken no notice. "We're nearly there," he said, biting his lip. He knew Sarmë would kill him later, but now he had to save his friend. Seldárë was only too bewildered. At first she hadn't believed Elemmírë, but when he hastily apologized to her mother and hoisted her into his arms and left, she realized he was being only too serious.

"Will we make it in time?" she asked worriedly. Elemmírë gritted his teeth and looked at the sky. Almost sunrise. Without replying, he urged the horse faster. The Ring of Doom was a tiring distance from Túna. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could try and justify their friend's actions. Elemmírë did not know if that would save him or not, but he hoped beyond hope that it would.

The rider briskly pulled the carriage door open so that its inmates could step out neatly. The grass was dewy beneath their feet, and studded with tiny golden and white flowers. At a distance ahead, stone pillars rose forebodingly against the sky, in stark contrast to the beautiful earth. Makalaurë could make out odd fragments of the three Valar as they sat in their majestic thrones. Manwë was there, and Námo. Nienna was present as well, though that was uncommon. The rest were absent. Varda was not there. Makalaurë felt strangely frightened because of that, though he could not place why.

"Come," said Eönwë, stepping aside to let him walk first. Makalaurë's heart began to thud violently in his chest. Nerdanel and Mahtan stood outside the Ring, pale and tired-looking. Nerdanel appeared as if she had not bothered to do her hair or even dress properly. Usually, she was impeccably turned out. Now her eyebrows were in disarray and her dress seemed oddly tied. Mahtan only looked half as bad. His thin beard stuck out at odd angles and his hair was uncombed. He it was who turned first to Makalaurë.

"Son," he said softly. He raised a hand as if to put it on Makalaurë's shoulder, but then dropped it back weakly. Nerdanel was studying the ground, her arms hanging limply by her sides.

"Amil," said Makalaurë, reaching out to touch her. Suddenly she gave a start and turned and embraced him fiercely. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and her face contorted in anguish.

"Makalaurë," she managed to gasp between sobs, burying her head in his shoulder. Makalaurë hugged her back tightly, never wanting to let her go. How could he let her witness this?

"Amil," he repeated. "Please, go back. I cannot let you see this."

"I cannot let you go," she replied in a hoarse whisper. "Makalaurë, I will die."

"No," he said, shaking his head, trying to convince her, trying to convince himself. "No, you will not. You will live, Amil, and you..." His voice caught in his throat. What could he say? What could he possibly say to a woman who had lost her husband, her six children, and was now about to lose her seventh before her eyes?

Eönwë, who had discreetly been standing at a distance, now stepped in. "Makalaurë, my lady, lord Mahtan. Enter."

Mahtan had to gently pry his daughter off Makalaurë so that they could all walk in. Flat, tall pillars surrounded their every side, and at each pillar there was a throne. Only three were occupied this day.

Manwë inclined his head in a grim greeting and bid Makalaurë come forward and kneel. "I will not hear excuses or attempts at negotiation," he said. "You threatened an Elf, stole from a park in Tirion and physically harmed someone. Am I right?"

Makalaurë took a breath. "Yes."

"Take a look at your family, Makalaurë. Is this what you wanted?" His voice was almost devoid of its usual kindness. It now sounded cutting, almost cruel. Makalaurë glanced at the two elves standing not far from the entrance. The two people he trusted with his life.

"No," he answered, looking at the ground. Manwë turned to Nienna.

"What is your opinion?"

Nienna looked down at Makalaurë from her lofty seat. She was dressed in simple robes of white and cream, and her face was every bit as gentle. "I feel judgement needs pity," she replied, turning to Manwë. "What has he done but minor acts of violation? In the first instance, he was threatened."

Manwë nodded and turned to Námo. "And you, Doomsman of the Valar? What say you in this matter?"

Námo's face was stony. "Whether he was threatened or no, he was not hurt, and later he did impose physical harm on a fellow Elf. Justice knows no compassion." They heard a soft cry from a distance. Nerdanel. Makalaurë dared to look back at her in apology, but was forced to turn to Manwë almost immediately.

"Judgement is made," said Manwë quietly. "Kneel before Námo."

"May I kiss my mother one last time?" asked Makalaurë. He was already going to die. He might as well dare a few more atrocities. To his mild surprise, Manwë nodded. Makalaurë rose to his legs and went to his family. He kissed Mahtan first, and then Nerdanel, and embraced them both tightly. Nerdanel could barely find the strength to stand, and Makalaurë stroked her hair, as if their roles had been reversed. "I will always love you, Makalaurë," she said. He released a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"Atar and the rest of us were fools to leave someone like you," he replied softly. "Pray, Amil, take care or Faelwen; she needs you. And please, talk to Lord Elrond." Giving her one last kiss, he retreated to kneel in front of Námo. The Vala raised a hand against the sky. His face was unmoved and without mercy, and Makalaurë only prayed that, for the sake of his mother, the act would not be bloody. Then he remembered Elemmírë and Seldárë, and hoped that they would not take this too harshly. It was not a likely prospect. He wondered what had happened to Atatyaro's two minions, and to Atatyaro himself.

But it was all right. He was content with such a death. Kneeling in front of the Valar, in his homeland, knowing that he still had family and friends – it was almost too good for him. Had he died on the shores of Middle-earth – alone, friendless and wretched – he would never have been at peace.

Would he meet his brothers, he thought suddenly?

"Do you have any last words?" asked Mandos. Makalaurë paused, pursing his lips. Then he bent his head solemnly, as if in penitence.

"_Ah Elbereth Gilthoniel_."


	20. Chapter 23

**A/N: I apologize for the long delay, but now the next chapter will be up very soon. I have altered chapter eight - almost entirely. Take a look if you want.**

**Almedias: Thank you! I kept looking at the name and saying, "Something's wrong," but, like the genius that I am, I could not place what it was. **

**Chapter Twenty-three**

Makalaurë felt a hand rest gently on his head. _This is it_, he though ruefully. _This is how it all ends. _He felt his _fëa_ begin to stir in the center of his chest and slip from his body like a soft breath. Immediately he felt breathing was hard. He hoped it would be quick.

Suddenly he heard a shout and all the sounds of panic behind him. The hand was removed from his head, and he felt his breath come back. His knees wobbled and he fell on his backside, gasping. He could not help twisting his head to see what all the commotion was. At first, he thought that his mother had broken down and Mahtan was trying to comfort her, but then his eyes caught a flash of silvery-blond hair and his lips pursed in surprise. Elemmírë had come crashing through the gates, defying Eönwë, with Seldárë tucked under one arm like a rag-doll.

Elemmírë cried, "Stop!" even as he was running, and, as if he had been talking to himself, scraped to a halt, panting heavily, eyes wide with panic. He put down Seldárë and then dropped to his knees before a shocked and slightly angry Manwë. Putting his hands together in a gesture of prayer, he said, "My Lord! Forgive me my uncouth entrance. You have every right to rebuke me, and more. But please, I beg of you, spare him!" He placed his head against the ground in desperation.

Before Manwë could even speak, Makalaurë sprang to his feet, ignoring the rush of dizziness he felt, and hauled his friend up by the shoulders. "What are you doing, you fool?" he hissed, annoyed and yet grateful. "You should not be here. Get out, before even you are confined to Mandos!" He tried not to look at Elemmírë's face, which was streaked with tears. The rims of his eyes were red and raw; he had obviously been sobbing for a time now. Makalaurë had never seen the Vanya weep.

Then something pounded into his legs, and he nearly lost his balance again. Seldárë was hugging his knees, burying her face in his breeches and gasping out apologies between heavy sobs. He threw a tentative glance at the Elder King, who was remaining stony-faced, and then hunkered down to hold the child at an arm's length. "Seldárë," he said gently. "Go home. You are too young to – "

"No!" she cried, shaking her head violently. "No, no, no! I'm sorry, Káno! I made you do all those things! Atar yelled at you because of me, and now you're here!" She actually tore herself away from him to stand, shaking, before Manwë. "Oh, please, my lord, don't kill him! I told him to get the fish! I wanted it, so he got it for me!"

Makalaurë practically yanked her away and hoisted her up in his arms. He gave as deep a bow as he could to the Elder King without dropping the child, and then turned to Elemmírë, who was still kneeling on the ground, though his arms hung limp by his sides. At the rim of the Ring, Nerdanel and Mahtan stood in utter bewilderment of what was happening.

Makalaurë sighed deeply, wiped the tears from Seldárë's face, and then advanced towards Elemmírë. He handed Seldárë over, his lips pressed tightly together, though his eyes were brimming with tears. "Elemmírë. Take her home. Now. I will miss you, old friend; I will miss all of you. But I cannot stay. It is not in my fate."

"Kanafinwë," said Manwë. Makalaurë turned and bowed again, deeper this time.

"My lord, a moment, please." He turned back to his friend. "You are the best friend I ever had. Words escape me presently, but you know what I would say – perhaps. Seldárë," he addressed the girl who was weeping heartily, hardly able to breathe amidst her sorrow. "I have grown to love you as a sister, or even as a daughter. Remember that I hold you blameless in everything." He gently kissed the tufts of soft silver hair on her head and said, "Go now." Elemmírë stood up and paused, biting his lip. He embraced the Noldo awkwardly, breathing hard but trying not to show it. Then, wordlessly and with stiff shoulders, he began to walk away.

"Wait."

Everything stopped. Elemmírë halted in his tracks in mid-step. Nerdanel and Mahtan looked like they were going to faint. The Elder King had spoken. Makalaurë wanted to pick up a rock from the ground and smash his head against it. It would have been easier than all this. Why? Why did his great idiot of a friend have to disturb everything? They were all doomed now.

"Turn."

Elemmírë turned, putting the girl down. Immediately she shot off towards Makalaurë and grasped his leg, jamming her thumb in her mouth with her free hand. Makalaurë placed a hand on her shoulder, but otherwise did not move.

"Explain." Manwë's voice was utterly emotionless, and his hands were placed on either arm of his throne. The shadows of the grey dawn appeared to recast his face into something that could almost be called terrible. Elemmírë looked like a man who did not know whether he was guilty of a crime or not, but knew he was going to die anyway.

"My lord – " His voice stayed in his throat like a thick piece of dry bread. None of the Valar said anything. Their silence made it even harder for him to speak.

Makalaurë stepped forward. "My lord, may I speak?"

"No." The King's tone was final. Elemmírë's face had drained of all colour, yet somehow he managed to keep his back straight. Finally, he took a quavering breath and said, "If I did not know better, o King, I would say that there was some sort of conspiracy against Makalaurë. Hence, I plead him innocent."

Manwë glanced at Makalaurë, whose lips were pursed. Grey bags sagged under his eyes. He looked as if he could barely stand. "Is this true?" asked the King.

The Noldo swallowed. "Yes."

"If this has been going on for a long time, why did you not mention it before? A punishment would have been meted out to the colluders."

"Punishment comes on its own, o King. It does not need laws. Either way, whether they conspired or not, I did wrong."

"When did you find all this out?"

Makalaurë paused. "Less than twenty-four hours ago."

"Who were the conspirators?"

There was a brief silence. Makalaurë knew that those men would not harass him again. They were just a bunch of angry, vengeful folk with no foundations in reality. So very much like he had been all those years ago.

"Speak," Manwë prodded.

"They were all Teleri. Lornavor, Felyawentë and a man called Atatyaro, who was their leader."

Before Manwë could call for Eönwë to send for the men, Mandos said, "There is no point. The last is dead."

"Dead?" asked Makalaurë and Manwë together. All eyes turned to Makalaurë. Elemmírë's jaw was slack and his eyebrows, raised. Had his friend really resorted to killing once more? He suddenly regretted coming all this way to save him.

"But how?" asked Makalaurë. "I let him go. I spoke to him just a few hours back!"

"He killed himself," said Mandos, impassively.

"Where are the other two?" asked Manwë.

"I think they are under trial at Arafinwë's court," said Makalaurë quietly. "Or, at least, they were, in the evening."

Elemmírë relaxed a bit.

Estë felt the need to speak. "King Manwë," she said, turning to him. "Shall we let him go? He was unjustly provoked."

"We will have to look into this matter," said Manwë. "For now, Makalaurë, I think you are safe. But you will stand here once again the day after, along with the conspirators." He stood, and the other two Valar immediately rose with him. "Your strictures still hold, Makalaurë. You are dismissed."

It was then that Elemmírë noticed that his friend's eyes were closing. Makalaurë put a hand to his pallid forehead, taking a shaky breath, as if even breathing was difficult. Nerdanel was rushing to his side, Mahtan close behind. Seldárë took an awkward step backwards as Makalaurë knelt to the ground, his brow beaded with perspiration.

"What is wrong?" asked Elemmírë, as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

"His heart is overburdened," commented Nienna.

"And his head, too, no doubt," said Mahtan, gently lifting his grandson up, letting him place an arm around his neck for support. Nerdanel placed her palms against Makalaurë's cheeks.

"Are you all right, son?" she asked anxiously. Makalaurë smiled tiredly.

"Yes," he said, but his voice came in a whisper. He was still leaning against Mahtan.

"For now, I think you need some rest," put in Elemmírë, lifting up Seldárë once more.

All of them bowed to the still seated Valar and took their leave. Daylight was breaking through the wispy clouds that were being driven across the sky by a soft breeze. The coachman was sitting in his seat in the carriage, his chin drooping to his breast and his arms crossed behind his head. He jumped awake when he heard the group approaching and grabbed the whip. One of the mares whinnied and stamped a hoof, hungry for oats. The coachman dug into a satchel which was lying by his side and brought out two apples, which he fed to both the mares. Makalaurë watched with his lips pursed and his eyes bleary, exceedingly tired.

They all decided to go back to the house of Elrond, but Elemmírë needed to put the stolen horse back in its stable. After placing Seldárë on the ground he grasped Makalaurë's upper arms and tried to grin. It was a miserable attempt.

"You should have told them about those buffoons at first," he said.

Makalaurë shrugged. "It did not cross my mind at that point. Thank you for coming – galloping – all this way for me." He rubbed his eyes.

Elemmírë nodded once, then turned to Nerdanel, who raised her eyebrows in enquiry. He bowed low, his tangled hair sweeping forward over his shoulders. "My lady," he said, putting a hand to his breast, "pray, forgive me."

Before Makalaurë could ask what he meant, Elemmírë straightened, turned back to him, and backhanded him straight across the face. Makalaurë stumbled back with a startled cry, his hand on his right cheek. "_What _– "

"That was for what you put me through," he said, lifting his chin in defiance.

"Thank you for letting me know," answered Makalaurë dryly, trying to ignore the sharp sting on his cheek. His hand was still resting on it. Elemmírë said, "Hmm," apologized to Nerdanel (who was gaping at him) once again, and leapt onto his horse. He looked down to Seldárë.

"Makalaurë will take you back home," he said. Seldárë nodded, still dazed from the night's events. Elemmírë nodded, clicked his tongue, and rode away, the wind tugging at his hair.

They stood in silence for a little while. Then Nerdanel turned to Makalaurë. "Shall we drop Seldárë at her house first?" she asked.

"Yes," answered her son and her father simultaneously.

They ushered the girl into the carriage and took their seats, Makalaurë next to a window and Mahtan opposite him. Nerdanel hoisted Seldárë onto her lap, where the little one sat with her knees apart and her hands resting on Nerdanel's lap. Nerdanel glanced at Makalaurë, who was sitting pensively, his jaw tight, and gently stroked his cheek, before giving him an awkward side hug. His lips twitched in a half-smile, and he looked up at her before casting his eyes down to his hands. He felt a finger lift his chin, and his gaze met Mahtan's.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Makalaurë."

* * *

There was nothing he could do. Elrond leant back into his chair and placed both hands over his face. A few hours ago, as he was passing by the medical wing, he had heard wracking sobs that indicated some serious pain. He had hauled open the door in haste to find Faelwen half-sitting up in her bed, weeping as if someone had dabbed poison into her wound. He rushed to her and tried to examine her, but she only said one fragmented word: "Makalaurë."

At first he had thought that his foster father had said something hurtful to her, but Faelwen eventually told him what really happened. After a slight shock, Elrond had given her a heavy sleeping draft and then collapsed in a chair by her bed.

Elrond screwed his eyes shut and prayed it was only a lie. It could not be true. Why would they simply take Makalaurë and kill him? Would there be a judgement? Or would they simply grab him by the hair, as if he were some black-hearted Orc, and slit his throat?

Resentment rose in his chest. It was his fault, foolishly leaving the room and not even setting an attendant at the door. He should have stayed within earshot – but he had only wanted to grant the couple some privacy.

It was Faelwen's fault. How could she just let him go without arguing? Why did she not call him? Why did she not demand an explanation?

It was the Valar's fault, taunting him as they had. Why had they let Makalaurë come back if they were only planning to rip his _fëa_ from his _hröa_? What could the mad idea have been? Did they want to grant him mercy, or only let him come back to his home so that they could rid Arda of all Fëanorian blood?

"Lord Elrond?" a voice buzzed through the wood. Elrond did not reply instantly. He sniffed hard and wiped his sleeve across his eyes, undignified gesture though it was – so very unlike the famously composed Lord of Imladris.

"Elrond! Are you inside?" It was Erestor. What did that damned advisor want at this time, Elrond thought to himself bitterly.

"Yes," he answered flatly. Whatever it was, he would not get up. Let the whole house fall to pieces, but he would not get up. He did not even try to wipe his tear-stained face as the door creaked open. By the footsteps, he could tell there were more than two people. He waited for Erestor to say something, to ask him something, but there was not a word. After a few moments, curiosity got the better of him, and he raised his eyes – and immediately leaped up, nearly knocking over the chair in his haste.

Makalaurë stood there, his brow furrowed and his face pale, but very much alive. Behind him were Nerdanel and Mahtan, their arms linked, and at the very last was Erestor, carrying a sheaf of jumbled parchments, looking at Elrond with more than a little anxiety. In the pale morning light they looked like characters in a dark tapestry, not unlike the ones that hung in the lighted halls in the house.

"Makalaurë," said Elrond, dumbfounded. It was as if his limbs were paralysed; he could not find in him the will to move. Makalaurë looked from Elrond to the sleeping Faelwen.

"I…I only gave her something…you're alive?"

"Yes." Makalaurë advanced towards his foster son and embraced him tightly. Never had he come so close to death, and the experience had left him astonished at how precious – and fragile – life could really be. Of course, he had seen how fragile life was – he had taken it several times himself. But under a state of madness, he could not truly understand what he had done. It was only later, after the words of his father had more or less worn off, that he began to feel the full terror of what he had done.

Elrond broke down like Makalaurë had only seen once or twice during the peredhel's captivity. His shoulders trembled violently, and he sank to the ground so that his arms were wrapped around Makalaurë's thighs. Makalaurë knelt as well so that he could hold him as he cried. Behind them, Erestor took a tentative step backwards. He wondered if he ought to stay. He decided he should not, and turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Makalaurë let go of Elrond and shifted his gaze to Faelwen. "How is she?" he asked softly. Elrond rose, trying to dignify his posture, smoothing his robes.

"Not well," he said. "But she will be once she sees that you are safe." He wiped the tears from eyes and took a deep breath. "For now, though, let her rest. She can see for herself once she wakes up. At any rate, she will not do so for a while." He coughed, placing a fist in front of his mouth. "You will stay here for a while, I take it?"

"Yes," said Nerdanel, taking a few steps forward. "If that is not inconvenient for you, my lord."

"It is not," answered Elrond, smiling at her. Nerdanel beamed, and suddenly laughed like sunlight on dappled water.

Elrond fixed rooms for all of them, personally ensuring that they were comfortable. None had slept that night, and Nerdanel and Mahtan immediately fell into their beds and shut their eyes.

But Makalaurë refused a bed, and only said, "I will stay by my wife's side till she wakes."

Elrond nodded. "Tell me if you need anything. I will be in the study." He went to the study, but eventually realized he could not concentrate on anything, and went to seek Celebrían.

Makalaurë drew a few curtains so that there was less light that fell on Faelwen's bed. Pulling up a chair, he sat by the bedside, taking time to calm himself. Things had gone at a whirlwind pace during that past few hours, and he had had little time to reflect. Now he breathed deeply, his hands resting lightly on his lap. Slowly, he recounted what all had happened during the past day. Then he thought about the past month, and then the past three months, and finally, the entire year. So much had really happened. When he came back to Aman, he had expected a quiet sort of life, with no parties or meetings – and certainly no performances! He had never expected to live in a new house, to form new friendships and reconcile old ones. He had never thought he would be accepted. He had not – not really – but the acceptance of his family and friends was really all he needed, and indeed more than he could wish for.

So he sat pondering, occasionally cleaning imaginary dirt from beneath his fingernails. A while later, Faelwen stirred, shifting in her sleep. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and her face paler than it ought to have been. Makalaurë gently pulled the duvet up to her chin and let his fingers glide across her cheekbone. He bit his lip suddenly, and as he looked out the window at the rapidly thickening sunlight, he felt tears spring to his eyes, and he put his face in his hands and wept. Whether for joy or sorrow or relief, he did not know. He wept.


	21. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-four**

_**Makalaurë**_

It is early morning. Ten years have passed since I last stood at the Mahánaxar. My strictures still hold, but I have faith that they will be removed before long.

I turn and see her sleeping contentedly by my side. Her dark locks tumble around her cheeks, caressing them with the gentleness of a swan's plume. She is so beautiful. I reach out to touch her forehead, to feel the soft skin beneath my fingers, and she stirs and furrows her brow. Oh dear. If she cries, she will wake Faelwen.

I quickly sit up and gather my little girl into my arms, rocking her gently and singing softly into her ear, till she falls into slumber once more. She was born not four months ago, in our mansion. Faelwen and I moved in with my mother a few years back, where we settled well, as comfortably as children sleep in their cradles. Now, I place my child between my wife and myself again, and sit with my chin propped on my hand, gazing at her. She has my dark eyes and coal-black hair, but the rest of her is Faelwen, with rosy, round cheeks and shapely, pink lips. She reminds me of one of those pretty dolls one sees at the windowsills of doll-makers houses. Now, lying on her side with her cheek pressed against the too-large pillow, she looks far too delicate for me to handle.

I have never felt such love before. I thought, when Faelwen was with child, that the infant would be mine. I could not have been more wrong. The second my daughter, bundled in soft white cloth, was pressed into my arms, I was hers. I could not deny her anything.

I remember the day well. It was the twelfth of _Cermië_, and everyone had gathered round Faelwen's bed to coo at the newborn girl. Faelwen's parents were there, and Amil as well, and Mahtan. I had to laugh at my daughter's bewildered expression as she was passed around like a ball among children. She instantly fell in love with Nerdanel, and Nerdanel with her. I suppose she was like the daughter my mother never had. Amil bounced her gently in her arms and made faces at her. She smoothed her hair and tickled her chin, delighted at this new addition to the family. To this day, I have a suspicious feeling she likes Nerdanel more than me. Often, when I am passing by the living room, I find Amil doing her needlework by the open window, her granddaughter sitting on her lap and staring with wide-eyed wonder at her work.

Mahtan she was a little afraid of at first. Imagine being barely a foot in height, and then placed into the arms of an exceedingly tall Elf with flaming copper hair, a scraggly beard and large, rough hands meant for smith craft and not for caressing. A week after she was delivered, however, we were all sitting in the living room, chatting away about nonsensical things, when Faelwen rather intentionally plumped her on Mahtan's lap and sat opposite them.

I waited with bated breath for her to start wailing, but she merely hunched her shoulders and whimpered slightly. Mahtan looked terribly awkward. I know he loves his great-granddaughter more than he can describe, and it must have been hurtful for him to know that she was frightened of him. But a few minutes into the process, she relaxed, gave a little sigh, clasped his tunic and fell asleep. It was then that I thought of a name for her: _Laurea_. Golden. She looked nothing less than gold like that, asleep in the lazy afternoon light that spilled silently through the windows. I had tried naming her before, but could not come up with anything appropriate. Faelwen is still thinking of a mother-name. But for me, she will always be Laurea.

Barely four months old, she has already acquired certain habits that are quite noticeable. For example, she likes to sit near the fireplace (which is now always unlit) and thumb through Faelwen's old books. She can't read yet, but she still likes to hold the hardbound books, to feel the velvety, yellow pages and to run her hands across the letters; I hope she will grow to like reading. She certainly likes the look of it.

She did take a liking towards music. I play her a tune on the lyre every day, and she sits quietly, her belly on the floor and her chin in her hands, and listens with rapt attention. Strangely enough, one of her favourite tunes is _Noldolantë _(I have never sung her the words)_. _I am currently working on it again, altering certain tunes, adding notes here and removing some there.

Sometimes, when I am sitting in one of the wooden chairs by the window and reading, I feel a tug at my breeches, and I know it is Laurea. She likes to try and climb my legs, just to show off and surprise me, and I always pretend that I haven't noticed her. But after a few moments I hear little sounds of frustration that could easily turn into hearty sobs, and I put down my book and feign utter shock at seeing her, and hoist her onto my lap, where she lies with her head in the crook of my elbow and immediately falls asleep. I obviously can't read like that, since I need both my hands to turn the pages, so I resort to gazing outside the window, where the willow tree is lit by the bright light of the blazing sun, and the blackbirds twitter while fluttering about the limp green leaves. And then I feel a shift in my arms, and I look down to see Laurea staring at me with an expression that lies somewhere between hurt and indignance.

"Sorry, sorry!" I say hurriedly, and adjust my elbow in the 'correct' way, and she sniffs disdainfully and falls asleep again. What a demanding little thing.

Still, I can't say I don't enjoy it. It is nice to have someone who toddles after you, who always expects you to lift them high in the air, who simply cannot do without you. I cannot do without her either. Sadly (according to Faelwen), I have gotten a tad possessive about our daughter. I can't stand the thought of some shady bloke coming and taking her away, no matter how many years away that may be. I said as much to Faelwen, and also said that I would have no such man stepping into our house, and she gave me a very dark look. I wasn't sure if she'd slap me or not.

She slapped me.

I turned to Amil for comfort, but she only cast me a pitiable look, as if I were a mischievous and utterly incorrigible child. "What?" I asked in a high-pitched voice.

"Men," she muttered, shaking her head. I suddenly missed my brothers very much.

But enough of that. I clearly recall the day when I deliberately called over Elemmírë to see Laurea. I could tell he was peeved, for it was another day when he was 'free', and I had possibly just ruined it for him. He stood by the main entrance, arms folded across his chest and his countenance impossibly annoyed.

Without a word and with a wide grin, I pressed my daughter into his arms while he shrieked and waved his hands frantically, babbling that he had no experience with children. I said that I didn't care, and moreover knew that he would never hurt her, and made him hold her. Then I stood back and tried very hard not to burst into laughter as I looked at him, miserable, almost on the verge of tears, while Laurea grasped a strand of his pale hair and yanked it, staring at it with huge dark eyes. I had to feel sorry for him. I took back my daughter and he visibly relaxed, his shoulders drooping.

"She likes you," I teased.

"Of course," he said sarcastically, nursing his sore scalp. "That is why she chose to torment me." But I could tell by the light in his eyes that he liked her, too.

There was, however, one person who was definitely _not_ happy with all this. A month after she was born, I took Laurea with me to Sarmë's house. I needed to discuss my schedule with him, and Faelwen and Nerdanel were busy that day.

Sarmë adored her. The minute he saw her he opened his eyes wide, leaned in and said, "Greetings!" in a sugarcoated voice. Laurea flinched back in my arms, appalled, and buried her face in my neck. Only after I told her to greet him did she mumble a muffled 'hello'.

About halfway into the conversation between Sarmë and me, Seldárë turned up at the door. She smiled broadly when she saw me, but then she looked at the sleeping child in my arms and her face fell. I laughed nervously and beckoned her to come closer so that I could give her a hug, but she only breathed heavily, averted her eyes, and then turned and fled from the room.

Sarmë and I exchanged awkward glances. I got up, handing Laurea to the manager, and went after his daughter. I found her in her room, sitting morosely at the edge of her bed, with great tears pouring down her cheeks. I crouched down in front of her, smiling gently.

"What is the matter, Seldárë?" I asked. She looked away sharply, screwing her eyes tightly shut. More tears squeezed from the sides of her eyes.

"What happened?" I probed, cupping her cheek in my hand. She gave a sad gasp and said, "You don't love me."

I said, half-chuckling, "Of course I do! Why would I not? Little one, you mean so much to me." I gathered her up in my arms, stroking her hair as she sobbed heartily.

"Come," I said, after she had finished and I had wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. "Come and meet Laurea."

She reluctantly did as I told her. Stepping in front of Sarmë, she waved hello to the child, who looked at her with curious dark eyes. I thought there might be some sort of rivalry between them, but within a few minutes they were playing on the floor, twirling each other's hair and giggling. Sarmë and I both breathed sighs of relief.

Elrond only got to see her two months ago. He came over carrying a satchel, suspending his duties for a time, and sat with me in my bedroom, while Laurea dozed, curled up against a pillow on the bed. When she woke, I lifted her and placed her in my foster-son's arms. Elrond's lips curled into a soft, sad smile, and he turned away so that he was facing the window. I heard him mutter a few greetings to her, and I saw a lock of his hair tighten as Laurea gripped it in her tiny palm. After a short while, during which I was becoming a little worried, he turned around, and I saw tears budding in his eyes.

"She reminds me of my Arwen," he said quietly, managing to smile and bite his lip at the same time. I took Laurea back.

"I am so sorry, Elrond," I said, mentally hitting myself for not being more sensitive. I had learned a few years ago that his daughter had chosen a mortal life.

"No," He said, tears suddenly gone. "No, I am sorry. Why should I hinder your joy? She is yours. Yes, she is yours. She will stay with you forever." Then he turned to stoop and dig into his packet; he brought out, to my complete surprise, a tattered stuffed rabbit that looked like it had been repeatedly stitched and only recently dyed a rather pale blue.

"I cannot believe you," I said. Elrond shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "Elros gave it to me before he chose to be human. I kept having it sewed since every few half-centuries it would fall apart. It's very delicate; you can let Laurea play with it once she's older and more careful." He handed it to me, despite my protests. He explained that he had given it to Arwen when she was little, and she eventually grew out of it.

"There's no sense in keeping it with me," said Elrond. "I might as well give it to someone special."

But, although I felt absolutely wretched for the next two days or so, change was in the wind. Some weeks later when I was composing a new piece of music, I heard a knock at my door, and Faelwen pulled it open without waiting for a reply. An expression of pleasant surprise was encased in her visage, and she stepped aside to let in Elrond, who was beaming like I had not seen in a long time.

"Elrond! I had not expected to see you at this hour." It was late evening. Then Elrond smiled even wider, and, turning around, he beckoned someone inside the room. When the person came in, I dropped the quill I was clutching. The resemblance he bore to Elrond was stunning. Impossible. He had the same raven-dark hair, the same strong jaw and straight nose, the same light grey eyes. If anything, he was a bit more muscled and his lips were fuller. Elrond placed a hand on the Elf's arm.

"My son, Elrohir."

He had apparently arrived the day before, and had spent his time with his parents in Tirion. Elladan, his brother, was still in Ennor, residing in Rivendell.

"He felt he did not wish to leave his home," said Elrohir as he took a seat on a couch. "But I missed my parents."

He had not married, much to Elrond's surprise; Elrond felt one ought to have a wife to help settle down and stave off loneliness. But I was used to being around bachelors, and honestly found nothing wrong with it.

"You have a little girl, I hear," he said, eyes alight with mirth. "Congratulations! You are in for a wild time." He laughed. Elrond simply shook his head fondly. I still find it quite surreal that the little boy I had raised actually had children of his own.

I still wonder at my life. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and expect to feel gritty sand on my face and in my tunic, and I prepare myself for another day of going hungry and wandering aimlessly by the Sea. Instead, I have my ear pressed to a soft pillow and am clad in clean clothes, with warm sunlight pouring onto my face. I told Faelwen how I felt, and she laughed and said, "You're quite the traveller, aren't you, Makalaurë? From one thing to the next."

You might be wondering about those two minions. After judgement, they were exiled from Tirion for five years. I have never seen either since.

Now I roll off my bed and throw my sleeping wife and my child one last glance before stepping into the washroom to bathe my face and hands. Pulling on a light tunic, I go out to the balcony. The Sun is rising; she spreads warm gold like butter over the fields of grain; the tops of the trees seem ablaze with fire. Twisting my head, I can see the flanking mountains of the Pelóri, snow-tipped and proud. The birds are singing. A bluebird flutters down and rests on the granite balustrade, ruffling its brilliant azure feathers. I reach out to stroke it, and it comes near, but someone calls, "Káno?" and it quickly flies away. I turn to see Faelwen standing behind me, her dark hair tousled and gleaming. She is smiling, holding Laurea in her arms. When she comes near, I embrace them both, managing not to disturb our daughter.

Faelwen places her head on my shoulder, and together we gaze into the far horizon. A breeze blows past and whispers in my ear, playing with the ends of my hair, and I look down at the palms of my hands; they are healed.

* * *

**Cermië – July**

**According to the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, Elvish children can sing and dance by the time they are one. Also, Seldárë would still, in Elvish terms, be a child. "Children of Men might reach their full height while Eldar of the same age were still in body like to mortals of no more than seven years."**

**Here's the list of thank you's!**

**First and foremost, thank you to all my lovely reviewers. This story would never have turned out the way it did without you. Special thanks to Puppet White, Warrior Princess 01 and Audrey33 for their constant encouragement and support! I have been especially touched by those who took the time to offer constructive criticism.**

**Thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien, without whom this story would not have existed, and without whom my life would certainly have been incomplete!**

**It's been a wonderful journey, and even though I have a lot to learn, I'm glad that people enjoyed this story. I am currently planning another fic about Maglor, this one about his old life in Valinor and how he became a renowned bard. If you like, you can check that out once it's up.**

**Take care, and may the sun shine upon your road!**

_**Maglor Makalaurë**_


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